E woke up at 7 am on Sunday morning. I needed a few more minutes of shuteye, and didn’t stumble to the kitchen until an hour later.

“Coffee,” I muttered.
“Breakfast!” he chirped, but hadn’t started cooking.

I looked in our refrigerator and noticed we had more than a dozen eggs, plus we had fresh chives in the garden. I decided to keep it simple–egg and avocado sandwich. Which brings us to another crossroad in our relationship.

E likes his scrambled eggs runny, like porridge.  He has a whole process taken from Gordon Ramsay, where you slowly cook the eggs and remove them from the heat intermittently, stirring constantly so they break down to a rice pudding like consistency. I like mine well done, cooked into bite-sized pieces that are easily picked up with a fork. “You like your eggs cooked to nuclear holocaust!” he yells. “You like egg smoothies,” I retort. I agreed to cook today’s eggs to a happy medium–runny, but not too wet.

Unfortunately–blame me paying more attention to “CBS Sunday Morning” than the stove–I cooked the eggs way too long and they turned to spongy egg bits. Egg packing peanuts is what it looked like. Perfect for me, but I knew they’d be like bricks to E.

I covered it up with tabasco sauce and butter on the English muffin, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“They’re not bad,” he said, leaving not one little egg brick left on his plate.

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