I learned most of what I know about cooking from my mother. She started me on the basics- scrambled eggs. While she would be getting all the other things ready for breakfast I was in charge of stirring the eggs. So there I stood on my little strawberry shortcake stool, spatula in hand making sure there were no crusty bits on the edges and that they didn’t stick in the middle. So much to manage at such a young age.
I remember fondly my early breakfasts in our little blue house. Wheat toast- made in the oven- with a pat of butter all melty in the middle and scrambled eggs, stirred by me. On Saturday mornings we would have some bacon or maybe some crunchy (only crunchy) peanut butter on the toast before dad would go to work that morning. We would hold hands around the square drop leaf table, as Dad would say the blessing. Without fail before the Amen, he would always say, “God thank you for the food and bless the hands that prepared it”. And in my little heart I knew that I had stirred the eggs and God was blessing me for doing it.