Scrambled

Will told me he'd like scrambled eggs this morning for breakfast,

I broke the eggs into a bowl. I added a dollop of milk, a shake of salt and a turn of pepper, then mixed it all up with a fork. I grabbed the skillet, knifed in a  pad of butter, turned on the burner and waited for the butter to do it's melting dance across the surface until it's finale -  an expectant puddle, waiting for my spatula to spread it all around.

I poured the eggs in and waited for them to set up, then I mixed them, scrambled them with my spatula until I concluded they were perfect. They were fluffy. No hint of brown on them.

Perfect.

I think it was a Tyler Florence cookbook I picked up at the library that told me that a good cook can be measured by how they prepare scrambled eggs.

I took great satisfaction in my cooking abilities this morning. I don't know if I'll ever be able to say the words out loud but for a few minutes this morning, as the orange-yellow yolk of the sun cracked the horizon, I was a good cook.

Why can't all of life be as easy as scrambled eggs?

After I left the kitchen and walked into my day, things started to get scrambled. Instead of a chef extraordinaire, I become the middle aged woman trying to put the pieces of her life together without the puzzle box picture to look at. What is it all supposed to look like? What should I have said? Should I have said what I did? Where God? What God? Oh and what should I wear? What should I try next? Can I?

Scrambled.

If only all the world was an egg.