THANKFUL FRIDAY

The omelet is my go-to left-to my-own-devices dinner choice when I feel like I should do more than just eat a can of tuna. I usually always have at least two eggs in the fridge and you can fill an omelet with whatever. There’s always some kind of greens in the crisper and a variety of cheeses in the cheese bin. If I’m feeling a bit extra, I might rehydrate some dried fancy mushrooms to add in. Do not be fooled. The omelet is only an option if I’m left to my own devices on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Not Wednesday because that’s kitchari night every week and takes only the effort of putting ingredients into the Instapot. If it’s a Friday night, I’m eating a can of tuna with a sleeve of crackers while drinking wine. This is a long and drawn out way to tell you about the last time I was on my own for dinner and made myself an omelet.

Omelets always make me think about my dad.

When my sister moved out of the family house right after graduating high school, I was just ending eighth grade. So I was like thirteen or fourteen and the last kid left in the house with two adults who bickered every single day of their lives together. They left me out of their squabbles for the most part, though that was also the summer I lived with my brother and sister-in-law because of the severity of said squabbles. Eventually the two of them agreed to minimize the amount of bickering and I came home. I don’t know how breakfasts in bed got started, but I suspect that summer was the catalyst. Every Sunday morning, before Mom and I got out of bed to get ready for church, Dad would bring us both breakfast in bed. Like for real. I would get a tray with a plate of breakfast and glass of orange juice sat down on my lap with my back propped up against the headboard of my bed.

Like a complete princess.

Dad was very good at cooking a handful of things. Eggs were his specialty and often he would make me a cheese omelet. Dad’s cheese omelets were off the hook. He would put so much cheese in it that sometimes it was more cheese than egg. I often wonder if he was having a competition with himself over how cheesy he could make an omelet. It should be no surprise to anyone that I was an irregular pooper when I lived with my parents, but mostly because of that omelet. That amount of cheese on a Sunday set the tone for the week, but I never said a single discouraging word about the omelet. I greeted every breakfast tray with enthusiasm and gratitude.

I never once asked for breakfast in bed. This was something Dad just decided to do. It was one of his ways of showing love. The three of us, my brother, sister and me, all grew up with different versions of our dad. Some versions of Dad were not great. He could get angry at the tiniest of things, but as he aged, he mellowed. Sometimes I feel a little guilty because I got more of the mellowed out Dad version. By the time my sister moved out, Dad had less things to worry about. I didn’t require much parenting and less time was needed for keeping me alive, leaving more time for the fun stuff. And Dad reveled in the fun stuff. He loved being involved with all of my extracurricular activities. Dad practically lived at the Christmas tree lot for the band boosters every season. He loved selling those trees and making popcorn for the concession stand at a Friday night football game. Dad was into all of it and he met every task with joy and enthusiasm. There were times when I just wasn’t into something, but then Dad would get so hyped up about it that it would change my mind. His enthusiasm was infectious.

I miss that.

I was fortunate to have had that.

Celebrating Fathers’ Day is complicated when your Father is no longer here. I am grateful to have had a dad who taught me to meet tasks with joy and enthusiasm.

And how to make really cheesy omelets.