Omelet

I cooked an omelet this morning. Well, almost noon I cooked an omelet. It might have been actually afternoon. And I burnt it but I still ate it. It's the principle of the thing. My husband was talking trash about me while I was still in bed saying I don't eat a good breakfast. I heard him! He always, and I mean always, cooks breakfast for our son. I can't eat so early in the morn. I just can't. I've tried. I can't. I had Lucky Charms yesterday morning, and I heard our son say, "Mamma ate Lucky Charms yesterday," like I had committed some evil deed.

They were talking stuff about me so I got up and made myself an omelet directly! I decided on an omelet because I made a few when I was 18. I was on an omelet kick for awhile back then. I don't know why, but I remember it like yesterday, cooking omelets.

My husband was on the sofa while I stood over a hot stove cooking my breakfast in silence. And he said, "You heard us talking about you, didn't you?" I told him, in my high, unconcerned voice, no. Then I knew what was coming next. "How long have I been telling you, you need to eat a good breakfast." Twenty-seven years, I said, not counting the year we lived together, or the six months we dated. And he came over and gave me a hug. He waited till I would look at him and he looked into my eyes and said, "You are what you are, and I love you."

Mmmm. Okay. I felt somewhat better then.

I'm going to ask him to cook up some cheese blintzes for us later this week. They're a lot better than the toasty omelet I ate.