Every morning my father fixes his own breakfast. When I arrive at the kitchen table, he is already standing at the stove in a white apron, taking orders.
“Anyone want bacon?” he asks. “Eggs?”
My brother and I always refuse, not liking Dad’s undercooked bacon or the way he makes the eggs. He calls them “scrambled” but he just cracks them on the grill and stirs them around a little—leaving jiggly patches of raw egg whites.
“I’ll have one piece of bacon,” Mom says and puts it on top of her toast.
My brother pours out some Cheerios while I grab the Raisin Bran. And for a few minutes we’re all at the table together. I watch my father cleaning his plate with evident pleasure and I wonder how he can eat the same thing every day?
Sometimes our family goes out for breakfast at a local diner but Dad never changes his menu. The waitress calls him the man who likes “half-done bacon.”
Now, all these years later, I stand at the stove remembering Dad in his white apron—offering to make breakfast as long as you’re having what he’s having.
And I wish I had sometimes taken him up on his offer, found a way to eat his bacon and eggs, found a way to say thank you.