Order up!

My mom taught me how to cook eggs when I was about six. She was a mom who taught her kids independence, which means you made your own damn lunch. Peanut butter and jelly gets old after a while, and Mom liked the idea of a hot lunch now and again, so she taught me cook eggs. Obviously, scrabbled is the easiest, but eventually we worked our way up to once-over-lightly, and her work was done. I could cook my own eggs and was expected to do so. 

When I make scrabbled eggs, I always mix them up in a mug with a little bit of milk before dumping them in the pan. When I was dating Chuckie, he accused me of over-mixing the eggs. He didn't like it when they were all one color. "You should see some white, some of the darker yellow." To this day, I don't mix them up as much, and I kind of think of them as Chuckie's eggs.

I'm not sure why or when I was cooking eggs for Chuckie, but I also ended up cooking eggs for Derek. We had gone to the Big Boy earlier, but we had this horrible waitress who just was not bringing the orders out. Derek got mad and we left, but then, well, hungry. No one was at my house as my family was on vacation but due back that night or the next day. We went back to the house and I cooked him up a breakfast at around 1 a.m. Of course, just as he was starting to eat, my family showed up. "What in the hell is going on here?" I think my dad was more upset at this guy eating breakfast than if he would've found us in a more, well, intimate position. 

Egg stories, we're digging deep here. Maybe I need my carbs.