Dear Bloggers,
Today I ate toast.
S ~ Cecilia
. . . . .
Dear Bloggers,
Today I am a woman.
(Just kidding, I've been a woman for awhile.)
I made toast.
I wanted eggs.
But I made toast.
I was satisfied with the toast.
Still, I think about the eggs.
S ~ Cecilia Tate
. . . . .
My husband who blogs says I don't have to write "Dear Bloggers" so I'm not going to anymore.
He says you're not even bloggers, but blog readers, and so it didn't make sense anyway.
He loves pointing things like this out.
I asked him if he read the blog, and he said, "People who read blogs have too much time on their hands."
When he saw me wince, he said, "You don't read blogs, Cecilia, you write one. It's entirely different."
I don't think it is at all, but I have no interest in arguing with him.
I had toast today. He had coffee.
He doesn't understand that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. When I was growing up, we didn't eat breakfast.
"No time!" my mother would shout as she shoved us all out the door to our respective schools and jobs (jobs, because my father got shoved out as well) and I always remembered feeling unsatisfied in the morning.
I dreamed of sprawling breakfast tables with pancakes, eggs cooked eighteen different ways, waffles, fresh fruit, bacon, sausage, and all sorts of juices.
Now I eat toast.
Because eating everything I dreamed of as a child would make me both obese and gluttonous (maybe the same thing?) and toast is satisfactory.
Although eggs would be nice.
One day there will be eggs.
S ~ Cecilia Tate
(My husband says I can do away with putting my name at the bottom of everything also, but I feel that's just rude.)
. . . . .
I made eggs today.
Total disaster.
I'm ashamed.
I actually wept.
I wept openly after my husband left. I held it in, watching him try the eggs.
They were a mess, but he ate them.
Then quietly got up, put his dish in the sink, patted me on the shoulder as if to say (Well, you tried...) and then went to work.
I could kill myself.
Those fucking eggs.
(Excuse my language, but this is the Internet. If you can't be vulgar here, where can you be?)
I don't know what happened.
I followed the guide to making eggs on Google EXACTLY and it still turned out wrong.
Did Google mislead me?
Jesus Christ
Should I try again tomorrow?
Sometimes I see polls on here where people ask questions and get answers from the majority.
I'd like to post a poll, but I have no idea how to do that. I would Google it, but I can't trust them anymore.
Just comment if you think I should try again.
My husband looked so disappointed.
I'm going to go make toast.
If that doesn't work out, I'm simply going to kill myself.
S ~ Cecilia Tate
. . . . .
I had a minor success today with the eggs.
I managed to scramble then.
Then again, scrambling an egg is virtually impossible to fail at. After all, the very action of scrambling an egg seems like what you would do to ruin it, and yet, success.
It's like throwing paint on a canvas and saying you've made a painting.
You have, but then again, how could you not?
My husband seemed to like the egg, but I cheated by putting an entire shaker of salt on it. My husband loves salt. He'd eat burnt rubber if you covered it in salt, and believe me, I've cooked things that were less appealing than burnt rubber, so I know.
Still, he gave me a kiss on the top of the head when he left for work today, instead of the shoulder pat.
A minor victory, but a victory nonetheless.
I just had coffee.
The stress of making eggs is getting to me.
S ~ Cecilia Tate
. . . . .
I poached an egg.
Don't ask me how I did it.
I have no idea how, and I am confident I would not be able to do it again, but nevertheless, I did it.
My husband was impressed. Beyond impressed.
He was stupefied.
He even said, "You did this?"
As if I had run out and gotten a private chef for the morning.
I don't blame him. I was amazed myself.
"Yes," I said, tucking my napkin into the front of my shirt, acting as if we were dining at a five-star restaurant.
He was so stunned that after breakfast, he gave me a kiss on the cheek. Within centimeters of my lips.
Today was a good day.
No need for toast.
S ~ Cecilia Tate
. . . . .
Today I was sick and slept through breakfast.
My husband tells me he "grabbed a frozen waffle on the way out the door."
I wish I weren't sick.
I wish I were dead.
S ~ Cecilia Tate, Failure
. . . . .
It was there this morning.
The pancakes. The eggs. The juice. Four different kinds. Freshly squeezed.
And there he was, sitting at the table, waiting for me.
"Hello, darling."
I thought it was a dream.
Maybe it was.
I'm still partly in the post-cold state of mind.
But I could taste it.
I could taste all the food. The entire table.
He made me breakfast.
"Thought it was my turn," he said, "Instead of always lumping it on you."
He gave me a kiss on the lips while I was still holding a piece of bacon in my hand.
"Love you," he said, "Don't think I forget it."
And then he was out the door.
And I still have half a table to eat.
But by God, I'm going to eat it all.
And the eggs. Oh, they were fabulous.
He did, however, forget the toast.
But then again, he's a man.
What do you expect?
S ~ Cecilia Tate
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