It’s 8:00 on Friday night. It’s been a challenging week on many fronts. I have no interest in making dinner and no interest in going out. I open the fridge, stare a while, then close the door. I eat a few Baked Lay’s Potato Chips and open the fridge again.
Soon bacon is sizzling in the pan and the intoxicating smell ignites a bit of appetite. I flip the bacon over, happy that I have not burned it. While the bacon cooks, I get a fork and scramble a few eggs with a bit of milk, salt, and pepper. On other nights, I might have added a rainbow of fresh peppers, but not tonight. Hoping the grease won’t pop and burn my hand, I lift the bacon and place it on the paper towel to absorb the fat.
I love the sound of eggs poured into a hot pan. It’s a unique sound that reminds me of breakfasts that my mom or my dad made for me all the years I lived at home. I love how the eggs gradually thicken, puff up, and become light, fluffy, yellow clouds.
As I sit down to eat my simple meal, I am grateful for the comfort 2 strips of bacon and a couple of eggs can bring.