Le Petit Dejeuner

I'm not a cook.

Ian tends to request elaborate breakfasts, usually when I'm the only one up and I'm in a hurry to get to work.

But today, in light of the oncoming blizzard, I decided to humor our young gourmet. He very distinctly requested fried eggs, so I proceeded to make some. He stipulated that he wants the yolks soft.

I dug out the frying pan and two eggs, and quickly put together two fried eggs. He practically galloped into the kitchen when I announced they were done. However, after his first glance, he remarked something along the lines of, "Daddy, they look scrambled." I assured him that they're not.

Frenchmen kiss their fingers and lift the kissed hand into the air to show appreciation for a good meal. The Italians have a gesture involving pointing the finger into the cheek and pivoting, to indicate approval. Ian hums. He really hums and hums, softly to himself, when he's enjoying a meal, usually with the chomping providing a bit of rhythm to his gentle tune.

Finally, he finished eating, and announced, "I ate it all, but I'd like you to make the yolks soft, this time."

I sat down to blog this, and he followed up with a gentle reminder:

"Daddy, fried eggs, please."

(February 10, 2010)