Donut Friday. That's the day Roger takes the kids to school and stops by the donut shop. Donut Friday's the day dad makes breakfast - flat eggs made to order. Salt. No pepper. Not ever! Flat-freakin-eggs.
The kids think their dad's ability to make flat eggs is a skill of the highest culinary order- no gently curdled scramble over medium heat for them. But today Dad was in Seattle and I was left to make the eggs. Who knew that it could be so hard to render an egg rubbery and crepe-like? Can I tell you? I went through half a dozen eggs trying to emulate their dad's flat egg technique. Olivia screamed at me after each failure - "that's not how dad makes them!" When we were down to two eggs I warned them that if they didn't like these then -horrors!- no donuts. But the threat of a Donut-less Friday did not deter them - oh no! They will have their freakin' flat eggs and their donuts too. And I did manage to make two serviceable flat ones. Carter sighed and agreed to eat the last one even though it had a rise, nay an indentation, an inexplicable microscopic formation, a minor change in elevation that rendered it un-flat. "Okaaaay, mom, I'll eeeeat it," he sighed. "I'll eat it. Can you cut in slices like Dad does?"