I made an omelette this morning. I mixed the eggs together and poured them into the cast iron skillet. As the edges began to cook I lifted one side of the pan, tilting it, so the runny center could find its way to the edge. It was then my father came to mind. He had taught me to do this so many, many years ago. Maybe I was ten. He had shown me that making it this way the omelette would cook evenly. Keep lifting those edges and let the runny center go there so it too would cook. Thinking of this brought a smile to my face, the memory of it feeling like a warm hug.
My father liked to putter in the kitchen- he did not cook real meals, but made a fabulous fried egg sandwich, excellent deviled eggs (it was the paprika on top that made the difference) and an amazing pecan pie. He enjoyed good food, and always encouraged me to try everything.
I finished cooking my omelette, sat down with a cup of coffee and remembered him some more.