Like Mother, Like Daughter (or son)

Until about three years ago, I wouldn’t eat a fried or poached egg. It had to be scrambled or hardboiled, and the hardboiled yoke bit had to be mixed with something to make it less chalky. If I was served a fried egg, I would cut the white part carefully free of the gross yellow stuff and eat it. If the yellow leaked onto the white, I wouldn’t eat any of it. I remember clearly freaking one day when my mom was cooking me an egg. She cracked the egg into the fry pan directly and started breaking it up with a spoon. This would create cooked bits of yellow and white, not one uniform color. Even as I read this right now, I am sort of laughing at myself. It’s kind of strange. I wouldn’t eat this strangely not quite scrambled and not fried egg thing that my mom cooked. She got upset and huffy about it, but pulled out a bowl muttering about one more dish to wash.

Just this morning, I offered my son a cooked egg for breakfast. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I asked him if he wanted it fried or scrambled. This was a complete waste of time because I already knew what his answer was going to be. Unlike me, he’ll eat a fried egg, but if given a choice…he’ll always choose scrambled. All I could think of when I was cracking the eggs into the bowl was, “one more dish to wash.”