It was 12:45 AM and my beautiful bride and I were sitting up in bed, chatting, having just finished watching the latest episode of The Bachelorette online. We discovered, due to the audible maw rumblings, that we were a tad hungry.
"Do you want an orange," I asked?
"Sure, as long as its not from Costco."
Costco, has wonderful prices but they are seriously lacking in quality in the produce department. You buy a 3-inch diameter orange and then have to claw your way through an inch-and-a-half of peel before you get to the dry, flaky flesh inside. The closest thing I can think of to describe the orange interior is the 5-year old, petrified remnants of that spray on insulation stuff you put on cracks that are too small to fit batting insulation through, or, in my experience, large cracks because you're too lazy.
So, I went downstairs, took out one of our new Premium Grade, non-stick, deep-sided, $6 frying pans (it has a black handle and a really, really shiny, silver hook on it to show it's expensivity), and removed half-a-dozen eggs from the fridge.
I cracked the eggs into a metal bowl whose handle clanked loudly when I took it out of the cupboard, and beat them with a small whisk that has a handle in the shape of an egg with a cartoonish chicken face on it. I added a dollop of extra virgin olive oil, ten shakes of salt, four twists of the peppercorn grinder, two drops of Tabasco Sauce, a small pouring of vanilla, a sip of milk, and four-and-a-half shakes of parsley flakes and mixed it all together. Then, I dumped it in the pan, scrambled it up, tossed it on a serving plate, sprinkled Cheddar cheese on top, grabbed two oranges and a couple tall glasses of milk, and headed upstairs to my bride.
Her eyes lit up when I walked into the room. She loved the eggs.
At 1:02 AM, in stumbled my two-year-old son, squinting at the lamp's lighting and shaking from just waking up. He came over to the bed and whined that he couldn't get up. So, we put him between us and fed him the eggs, half an orange, pretty much all our milk, and a heavy dose of smoochie woochies. With the first taste of food on his tongue, he was awake and chattering in no time.
To my bride, "Train's not going to get in the house."
"No trains not going to come in the house. They stay on the tracks."
"No, trains stay outside. Trains not come in da house, trains stay outside."
"Yep."
"Yep."
"Hang on mommy, I'll be done in just a minute. Trains not come in da house. Trains stay outside."
"Yep, you're right."
"I not scared anymore. Trains stay outside. You mommy, I Jack, and you daddy." (sniffle, sniffle)
It went on like that, very repetitively for about thirty minutes until the lamp went off and I remembered no more.
Life is good.
"Do you want an orange," I asked?
"Sure, as long as its not from Costco."
Costco, has wonderful prices but they are seriously lacking in quality in the produce department. You buy a 3-inch diameter orange and then have to claw your way through an inch-and-a-half of peel before you get to the dry, flaky flesh inside. The closest thing I can think of to describe the orange interior is the 5-year old, petrified remnants of that spray on insulation stuff you put on cracks that are too small to fit batting insulation through, or, in my experience, large cracks because you're too lazy.
So, I went downstairs, took out one of our new Premium Grade, non-stick, deep-sided, $6 frying pans (it has a black handle and a really, really shiny, silver hook on it to show it's expensivity), and removed half-a-dozen eggs from the fridge.
I cracked the eggs into a metal bowl whose handle clanked loudly when I took it out of the cupboard, and beat them with a small whisk that has a handle in the shape of an egg with a cartoonish chicken face on it. I added a dollop of extra virgin olive oil, ten shakes of salt, four twists of the peppercorn grinder, two drops of Tabasco Sauce, a small pouring of vanilla, a sip of milk, and four-and-a-half shakes of parsley flakes and mixed it all together. Then, I dumped it in the pan, scrambled it up, tossed it on a serving plate, sprinkled Cheddar cheese on top, grabbed two oranges and a couple tall glasses of milk, and headed upstairs to my bride.
Her eyes lit up when I walked into the room. She loved the eggs.
At 1:02 AM, in stumbled my two-year-old son, squinting at the lamp's lighting and shaking from just waking up. He came over to the bed and whined that he couldn't get up. So, we put him between us and fed him the eggs, half an orange, pretty much all our milk, and a heavy dose of smoochie woochies. With the first taste of food on his tongue, he was awake and chattering in no time.
To my bride, "Train's not going to get in the house."
"No trains not going to come in the house. They stay on the tracks."
"No, trains stay outside. Trains not come in da house, trains stay outside."
"Yep."
"Yep."
"Hang on mommy, I'll be done in just a minute. Trains not come in da house. Trains stay outside."
"Yep, you're right."
"I not scared anymore. Trains stay outside. You mommy, I Jack, and you daddy." (sniffle, sniffle)
It went on like that, very repetitively for about thirty minutes until the lamp went off and I remembered no more.
Life is good.
Too cute. My Wesley used to hear the train in town and thought it was in our woods, coming toward the house. Hysterical screaming. Love your sweet story.
ReplyDeleteBut can we talk about the vanilla in the eggs?
Um. You're talking to the master of weird creations (sometimes, we end up going out to eat). Vanilla is small potatoes when you consider I passed up the ginger for it.
ReplyDeleteYay! My little girl gets up in the middle of the night like that too. The craziest was the time she woke up at 2:00 in the morning and just wanted to play in her room. So she did, for like an hour, while I laid on the carpet and dozed. And then she voluntarily went back to bed. Like, what?
ReplyDeleteAlso, in Ancient Rome they put soy sauce and honey in their eggs.