Whenever my daughter asks for eggs, I always sweat. Making her eggs is like defusing a bomb- delicately making sure they’re not too thick, too thin, too burnt, too mushy, nor too smelly- like a wet dog. Carefully I have to stir until I think it’s the right consistency. Then, the panic sets in when I am ready to place it in front of her. Watching her look at them- noticing what I see, that they’re not going to be good enough for her. Knowing the way she looks at them with disdain, distrust. As she takes her fork to peck at them, I hold my breath patiently. My heart racing as I see her expression as she puts the first bite into her mouth. Some of the time, she’ll keep on chewing- but I’m afraid to move a muscle. Other times, its as if she hears my inside voice and glares at me as she spits them out- like the Fuerer, shoving them out of her sight.
Another meal wasted, another notch of failure on my apron.