In certain ways, I’m a pretty decent cook. I can assemble a mean sandwich. My wife says I make veggie burgers far better than she ever could (how I do this, given that they’re frozen Boca burgers that I just heat up, I don’t know). I make a damn good dumpling sauce. But when it comes to actual cooking, with raw ingredients and that sort of jazz, I’m clueless and damn near helpless. I need refresher courses before cooking pasta — which always comes out undercooked regardless. And until today, I don’t think I’d ever cooked an egg.
But there I was, alone in the apartment with Weevy, who was at the dining table surfing YouTube videos on the iPad, when she said “Egg?”
“Um, you want an egg?”
“Yes?” (She phrases just about everything like a question — this will come in handy during her teen years, when all her friends will start doing it too.)
OK. Go to the fridge, pray that we’re out of eggs. DAMN, there are a good half dozen in there. Consider lying to Weevy, but then make the tougher, bolder decision — to man up and make her a scrambled egg all by my lonesome, as if I’m a real grownup or something.
I get out the frying pan, spray some Pam on it (I’m clueless, but not THAT clueless), heat it up, crack the egg, put contents of said egg in the frying pan, and pray.
Weevy likes her eggs scrambled, so I grab a fork and start sloshing the stuff around. And sure enough, within a couple of minutes, I have a fully cooked scrambled egg in the pan. Holy shit! Why didn’t someone tell me it was that easy?
I resist the urge to say “Look, Weevy, I did it! I made an egg!” and simply bring it out to her all nonchalant, like I’ve done it a million times before. “Here’s your egg, sweetie.”
Of course, she ate about three bites before she decided she wanted ice cream instead. I considered having the remains bronzed, but I wound up throwing them out — after having a few bites myself, of course. Best damn egg I’ve ever had. Move over, Jacques Pepin.