Cooking with Carol
My family has a tradition of big breakfasts on Sunday mornings, usually made by my father and sister (when she visits). This scene played out at my parents’ house a few months ago before one such breakfast:
Always wanting to help, my mother asks what she can do as my father begins assembling a pile of ingredients for scrambled eggs. Making scrambled eggs is often a mighty task (especially since no two batches are the same), and my father knows that this would be a good way to keep my mother involved. As he digs around in the fridge for inspiration, he tells her to start cracking eggs into a bowl.
My mother studies my father as if she didn’t hear him. He repeats the instructions, this time a little louder.
She hesitates for another second, and then plucks an egg from the carton and begins shaking it.
“Break it open and put it in the bowl,” my father repeats, his patience thinning.
She looks at him, and then the egg, and then places the whole egg in the bowl. “No, that’s not what you want, either, is it?” she says as my father confiscates the egg.
“Here, like this,” he says, tapping the shell on the edge of the bowl until the yolk oozes out.
He gives her another egg. She holds it in both hands, trying to twist it open.
“No, like this.” He takes it from her and repeats his tutorial.
My mother stares at the shells piling up in the garbage can. “Well, I guess no one ever showed me how to do that before,” she says.
“Carol, you taught me how to do this.” His voice rings with indignation, as if his wife is playing a game with him that has just gone too far.
My mother sighs and watches as my father finishes making breakfast by himself.
A few hours later, my father tells me about the incident. He is convinced that my mother was intentionally being difficult, especially since she often participates in my cooking projects.
“When Mom helps me, I usually just have her stir," I explain. "She’s pretty good at it, and she knows that’s something she can do."
“Ah," he replies, "I knew there was a catch!”
Always wanting to help, my mother asks what she can do as my father begins assembling a pile of ingredients for scrambled eggs. Making scrambled eggs is often a mighty task (especially since no two batches are the same), and my father knows that this would be a good way to keep my mother involved. As he digs around in the fridge for inspiration, he tells her to start cracking eggs into a bowl.
My mother studies my father as if she didn’t hear him. He repeats the instructions, this time a little louder.
She hesitates for another second, and then plucks an egg from the carton and begins shaking it.
“Break it open and put it in the bowl,” my father repeats, his patience thinning.
She looks at him, and then the egg, and then places the whole egg in the bowl. “No, that’s not what you want, either, is it?” she says as my father confiscates the egg.
“Here, like this,” he says, tapping the shell on the edge of the bowl until the yolk oozes out.
He gives her another egg. She holds it in both hands, trying to twist it open.
“No, like this.” He takes it from her and repeats his tutorial.
My mother stares at the shells piling up in the garbage can. “Well, I guess no one ever showed me how to do that before,” she says.
“Carol, you taught me how to do this.” His voice rings with indignation, as if his wife is playing a game with him that has just gone too far.
My mother sighs and watches as my father finishes making breakfast by himself.
A few hours later, my father tells me about the incident. He is convinced that my mother was intentionally being difficult, especially since she often participates in my cooking projects.
“When Mom helps me, I usually just have her stir," I explain. "She’s pretty good at it, and she knows that’s something she can do."
“Ah," he replies, "I knew there was a catch!”
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