Maj is making herself a scrambled egg.
She knows how to make a scrambled egg, and she does not need any help from her mother. Her mother should just hush up and appreciate the “egg majesty” of her older daughter. Maj is pretty sure her mother is insane with all of her rules and regulations about cooking a scrambled egg. Her mother should just let her older daughter spread her “egg-flying wings” without constant tiresome scrutiny and correction.
As Maj says the words, “egg-flying wings,” she turns and throws the two halves of a broken eggshell across the kitchen.
Persie the Labrador watches as the eggshells sail over her head. A goopy string of egg-white slime falls from one of the eggshells onto Persie’s forehead, and Persie sinks to the ground in panic and confusion. She had no idea a bird could poop on your head before it was even born! She wipes unhappily at her face with her large brown paws.
The eggshells continue their journey across the room. I assume the intended destination is the kitchen sink, but the eggshells fall well short of this goal, crashing instead on the floor at Jack the Terrier’s feet. He scoops them up in his mouth and crunches them happily.
Maj stares at slobber-headed Persie and crunching Jack, “Oops.”
I sip my coffee, “You might want to put some butter in the frying pan before you cook your egg.”
“I know what to do, Mother.”
“Also, you have the burner turned on HIGH, which is probably a bit too hot.”
“Why do you keep talking, Mother? I have the situation under control.”
“Alright, babe.”
She walks to the refrigerator and gets out the butter. Slices off a small piece and tosses it in the frying pan, where it spits and sizzles and browns in the too-high heat, “AUGH! This butter is rotted, Mother. Look at how it turns brown in the pan! Why can’t we ever have fresh butter? How am I supposed to make a quality breakfast with rotted butter?”
“The butter’s not rotted, it’s just too hot. Your egg will still taste fine. Take the pan off the heat for a minute and turn down the burner before you cook your egg.”
“Mother, I do not have time for waiting and cooling . . . I am cooking this egg my way at top speed and high heat. Will rotted butter poison me, you think? I would hate to be poisoned on the second day of school. You would have to write me a very awkward note of death to excuse my absence.”
I watch as she retrieves the bowl into which she cracked the egg.
She pours it into the butter-smoked pan, and then stares sadly at the egg in the pan as it crackles and spits and starts to cook in high-heat rapid fashion, “Hmmm . . . guess what, Mother?”
I lean to look into the pan, “What?”
“Eggs don’t scramble themselves, apparently.”
We stare together at her sunny-side-up fried egg, “Smash it in the pan, Maj. If you move quickly, you can still make it scrambled.”
She takes the spatula and presses down hard on the egg, “Ewwww . . . now it’s just oozy and flat and there is orange blood everywhere.”
“I didn’t mean to actually smash it, Maj. Stir it around . . . scramble it.”
Maj pauses to look at me, “Words have meaning, Mother. You tell me to smash an egg, I am going to smash an egg.” She turns off the burner and chops angrily at the egg until it is in little smoky fried pieces, “I am not eating this. First? The butter is rotted. Second? I am too aware of this egg’s orange blood and unborn chicken status. Third? This unborn cooked chicken is taking a belligerent attitude with me where scrambling is concerned. Fourth? The smell of smoke is making me gag. I may barf.”
At the word “barf,” Jack’s body starts heaving in rhythmic fashion.
I move to grab him and toss him in the back yard, and then Maj and I watch through the window as he vomits up a pile of dog food and egg shells. He gives a last shudder and then wags his tail delightedly as he settles in to eat this surprising extra meal. YAY! On our side of the glass, Persie watches him, her face set in a strange expression of dog surprise.
I lean to look at Persie, because she is generally droopy-faced, and her forehead looks as though she has perhaps recently gone in for Botox injections. I pet her strangely smooth and tight forehead, “Hey, Maj?”
“Yeah?”
“Persie’s forehead is all youthful and albumened!”
“Don’t throw vocabulary at me this early in the morning, Mother. I refuse to catch your words. I will just let them drop to the floor unquestioned.”
I slide the door open so Jack can come back in, “OK, just leave the words on the floor so Jack can eat them.”
Maj scrapes her plate into the garbage disposal, her meal uneaten, “Mother, I am going to starve to death. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and you have ruined it, and now I am going to starve to death.”
“Want me to write you an excusing death note?”
“No, Mother.”
“Dear Junior High . . . It is entirely possible that Maj, like the butter at our house, is nearing her expiration date. Please watch for signs of browning around the edges as she sizzles on the playground sidewalk. If she starts to crack, please lay her face-up in the sun. Use caution when approaching, because her mind is likely all scrambled. Whatever you do, do not squeeze her, as the oozy orange result will ruin everyone’s appetites.”
Maj stares at me.
I reach up into the cupboard, “Or you could eat a granola bar and a banana . . . maybe some yogurt.”
Maj reaches for these items and then sighs, “I would rather eat a scrambled egg.”
“Yes, well . . . that didn’t go so well.”
“I am aware, Mother. I was here for the entire debacle.”
Persie and I both look at Maj in surprise.
I reach to high-five Maj, “Debacle? Good vocabulary toss!”
She shrugs on her backpack and heads out the door, granola bar in hand.
I call after her as she walks down the driveway, “Have an egg-straordinary day!”
She glares at me, “You are so annoying, Mother.”
Behind me I hear the sound of Jack barfing up the eggshells again.
He loves days that have extra meals!
Yum!
