I grew up with a dad that would eat pretty much anything. The man is a gem when it comes to food. He ain’t picky. The more I learn, the more I realize it’s something NOT to be taken for granted.
(Thankfully, God blessed me with another man who also is not picky about food.)
Well, this morning, I decided to fry myself an egg for breakfast. I have issues with fried eggs. It drives me batty. No matter how hard I try, most of the time the yolk breaks (I like them over easy), or it burns or something. This morning, the problem was that I didn’t leave it on long enough and the white was runny. *blech* I sat at the table with the egg on my plate and muttered, “I can’t do this.” Across the room Caleb asked, “What?” I replied, “I just can’t eat this runny egg.”
The egg this morning reminded me of a time I cooked dad supper back when I lived at home. Though dad isn’t picky, he can’t cook a.single.thing unless it can be done on the grill. So, I cooked supper that night. My choice of meal was breakfast.
Now, we like breakfast for supper. We like breakfast for supper far better than breakfast for breakfast. It was one of our go-to meals at home. Since mom wasn’t there to save me, I had to buck up and attempt fried eggs by myself. Determined not to over cook, burn or break the yolk, I took them out of the skillet early, proudly brought the plate of fried eggs and all other food to the table and sat down with dad.
We ate. Dad was quiet.
Never did he complain. But after I picked through a runny mixture of barely cooked egg, I piped up, “Ummm, you don’t have to eat it.” He was trying, poor man. He was trying. But at that, he broke into a huge, sheepish grin and kind of laughed. And neither one of us ate the eggs.
But he didn’t complain, and he would have eaten it. And for a daughter cooking her dad a meal, that’s something I’ll always remember.
(Oh, and Caleb came to my rescue this morning and fried me another egg.) And that’s the story of my men and the fried eggs.