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.