Hold the Mold!

We recently learned that our friend’s daughter-in-law, Becca, gets up at the crack of dawn every morning to make her husband a delicious breakfast.

Rumor has it, not only is she whipping up eggs at this ungodly hour, she’s doing it in an adorable outfit, fresh make-up, and with a cheery attitude.

Diabolical. 

I turned to Steve, “Who would want breakfast that early?”

“Me,” he said.

“You want to eat at 6 AM?” I asked.

He nodded.“ Thanks, hon.”

Did I just sign up for the early shift? 

I guess I was about to become the “New (Old) Becca.” 

Day 1: I hit the snooze button repeatedly, and breakfast was later than anticipated.

We’ll call it brunch.

This also happened Days 2-6.

But on Day 7, I nailed it.

I only hit the snooze button twice and was in the kitchen by 6:22.

Steve had a call at 6:30, so sadly, no time for my scramble.

I went with oatmeal.

You can’t ruin oatmeal.

I threw some blueberries and cinnamon on top, and Voila, breakfast was served.

It was a dish I could prepare with my eyes closed.

Which I may have.

“How is it?” I asked.

Steve sneezed. “I think you put cumin on it.”

It’s a spice that starts with C. 

There was no pleasing this guy.

For the next week, I went with bagels and cream cheese.

And not just any bagel, the Everything Bagel from Costco.

Toasted perfectly, with a schmear of cream cheese.

It was like I was running a New York deli.

In between bites, Steve rambled on about “What a beautiful morning it was* and all I could think was, Good God, this guy is a Chatty Cathy in the morning, when suddenly it became quiet.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding up his bagel and examining it.

I walked over, and opening one eye, I could make out a greenish tint.

“Pesto?” I said hopefully.

Had I added pesto to his bagel without even realizing it?

In my sleep-deprived stupor, was I still garnishing? 

What a champ!

Or did I think it was St. Patrick’s Day?

Festive!

Steve shook his head. “It’s not pesto.”

I looked closer.

Sorry about that, buddy. 

Next time I’ll remember…

Hold the mold.**

By week 3, I finally turned things around.

No more  hitting the snooze button, and in the kitchen by 6.

Sure, I wasn’t able to form complete sentences, but I was standing upright.

And making some amazing egg dishes…

“How’s your brr… brr…” I trailed off, as Steve delved into his feta and spinach scramble.

Silence.

I squinted across the dimly lit kitchen. Steve appeared to be raising one hand in a triumphant gesture as if to say, I LOVE THESE EGGS!

He cleared his throat.

I yawned and waited for accolades.

Then Steve began to cough.

And cough.

So far, not a great speech.

“Kuh, kuh, kuh” he sputtered and gagged.

Was he choking?

I raced across the room and whacked him on the back.

Thankfully, he didn’t need the heimlich. 

Because, let’s be honest, it was way too early for that.

“Did it go down the wrong pipe?” I asked.

Steve caught his breath. “I didn’t want to say anything, but there were shells.”

Is this guy slandering my scramble?

He put his plate on the ground and our dog Dixie came running.

“My eggs do NOT have shells!” I said.

Dixie took a bite. ***

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Maybe just a few.

I flipped the light switch and put on my glasses to get a better look at Dixie lapping up her eggs a’ la shell.

How could this have happened?

It was a mystery.

Regardless, we both recognized my breakfasts were best served late morning.

Safety first.

Also, let’s be honest…

I’m no Becca.

*No, it was not.

**That only happened once. Please don’t be afraid to eat at my house.

***Dixie has an iron stomach. She’s fine.