Scrambled Eggs

Margret Mallory sat beaming down at her plate of sunshine. That’s what she’d called the heaps of canary yellow scrambled eggs mother would serve her weekend mornings for as far back as she could recall. Her mother had this magical secret recipe she’d tell Margret was filled with at least twenty-four ingredients from all corners of the Earth. They each had an exotic name and now that Margret was in her late teens she realized that these names might actually be made-up. It didn’t matter where the recipe came from, and certainly it didn’t matter if it were part of an elaborate tale her mother had concocted many years ago for her little girl. Knowing that only made them taste better to her.

She propped her elbows onto the gingham table cloth and let a foolish grin cover the lower half of her delicate face. She was a slight girl with one of those heads that held up features just a bit too large for the face they resided upon. Eyes that bulged surrounded by lashes like feathers batted the stardust from in front of her face. Her cheek bones swelled out like enormous bee stings still rosy from the flying insect’s assault. Protruding below her cheeks in a perfectly tied bow, were her lips wrapping up an over sized set of cloud-white teeth all standing at attention in two neat rows.

The fork in her hand caught the Saturday morning light briefly as the fog started its coastal routine of burning off before noon. Margret dipped her fork into the eggs, not stabbing because that might deflate their puff; instead she chose to gently lift them up from under where they practically hovered above the plate. The misty steam preceded the eggs and climbed into Margret’s nose almost heavy from the spices that created the heavenly aroma.

“Tell me the main spice- just the main one, the one that tastes like the kitchen smells?” Margret asked.

“If I tell you that then you won’t need me to make them for you anymore." Margret’s mom held back a sly grin at the silliness of the power she possessed over a mundane breakfast food. She heard her daughter give up a little laugh of defeat, then the sound of the fork lightly scrape her teeth. She kept her back to Margret cupping her coffee in its “Worlds Best Mom” mug and went over the days mental check list she always made as the fog turned to mist then laid down as dew on the Redwoods.