Monday, June 4, 2012

Scrambled Eggs

Today's assignment is to go back to a room of your childhood.  I, of course, went directly to the kitchen, with my Dad making breakfast.  I added a little bit of fiction to the scene, though, because I am playing with stories!

Daddy makes the best pancakes on the planet.  The thought of brown butter crispy edges that are a bit salty make me lick my lips as I hop out of bed.  Coffee mixed with bacon hits my nose next as I round the corner to the kitchen.
"Good morning, Missy," Daddy smiles as I head over to the counter to help.  I can't remember when he started calling me that, Missy, Miss Kris.  I'm almost 12 years old, and I've asked him to call me Kristin.  I'm going to Junior High next year, and I would prefer to be called by my real name.
"How about scrambling some eggs?"  He hands me the carton, and I start cracking them into the bowl.  Tapping each one perfectly on the countertop, the yellow yolks plop one by one together, like sunny morning polka dots.
Crack one, plop, crack two, plop, crack three.  The rhythm of our morning work hums like the gentle strumming of his 6 string guitar.  Daddy flips the bacon, the sizzle and pop of fat adding notes of staccato as we continue.  Crack, plop.  Crack.
What IS that red stuff in the bowl?  I inhale with surprise.  Is that... blood?  My heart pounds as I consider the scarlet ooze dripping from the shell.
His serene gaze crinkes into a grimace as he ponders my predicament.  "How many eggs are left?"
"I'll be back.  Flip the pancakes," he snaps.
The door slams and I hear the rumble the engine as he backs out of the driveway.   The music is gone.


  1. I was immediately drawn in by the sensory details in your post. The ending was an absolute curveball. Loved it!

  2. Thank you for your feedback, Miranda! You are my very first comment, and I appreciate your thoughts, time, and kind words. :)