eleven
The next morning, a loud text from Mary Ann makes me nuzzle against my pillow with a bit of irritation, but I end up smiling.
You’re coming out drinking with me and Danny and the guys tonight! I need a girl, LOL. Save me from the testosterone!
While still under the sheets and waking and after I Google how to make scrambled eggs and omelets, I send my positive reply that I’m in.
Surprisingly, there’s also a text from my sister.
Where are my pics? Is the house as funky as I remember? LOL! That weird, tiny kitchen, right?
I can’t argue with her on that.
Oh, yeah. It’s as small as ever! The whole place needs a major overhaul. But the lake is still awesome.
After I crawl from bed and head downstairs, I snap a photo of the morning sun over the lake for her and then go back to my searching.
Even I know that scrambled eggs have the potential to be dry and congealed, so it seems like a basic cooking skill that I could pull off without too much training.
I hope.
After a coffee and two icy glasses of orange juice, I whisk up eggs and a bit of cream and toss the mix into a sauté pan that’s sizzling with butter. I stare at the recipe video that I’m trusting, and I let the eggs sit over medium heat before stirring. This old gas stove might be ugly as hell, but it still works. After I swirl my spatula, as instructed, leaving the eggs semisoft and glistening, I follow the instructions to remove the eggs before they’re fully set even though I’m creeped out about salmonella.
But I brave my worries and scrape my eggs onto a plate to try a bite.
Holy hell, these are insanely awesome. All fluffy and flavorful. So simple and so wonderful.
What in the hell?Who knew scrambled eggs could be so good? Or good at all?
I’ve only had hotel eggs or dry restaurant crap, and this is nothing like I’ve tasted. God, such a simple dish can be satisfying in so many ways. Who knew? Oh, well, all the French chefs everywhere.
I want more.
After fifteen minutes of studying omelet videos, I take on my next challenge—a ham and cheese omelet. My shaking and flipping of pans land terrible results. Yet I do this five times over.
Crap.
Scary-looking messes are my skill, it seems, but I learn a little with each mishap.
So, I go again until finally, I get an okay result.Thank you, Chef Jacques Pépin!
Then, I quickly search Amazon and order a true omelet pan.
Right when I am celebrating my eggs, my mom calls, and as much as I have no desire to chat with her, I feel obliged to take her call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How are things? Any plans figured out?”
“Well, I’ve been here for half a minute, but it’s all right. Weird to be back home. Danny is coming over soon to walk through the house, but even I know there’s a lot to be fixed.”
“Who is Danny?” she asks. “Where is Paul?”
“Danny Schroeder. He was at our house all the time. He works for Paul and is going to do the initial survey of the house. Calm down.”
“Oh.” She softens a bit, and I hear her take a sweet breath. “I remember him. Of course I do. He and your dad spent a ton of time together.”
“That must be why I’m so comfortable with him.”
