Last weekend, I made Namine breakfast so Jessica could sleep in. She wanted a fried egg. I’m not a good cook (or deserving of the title “cook” at all) by any stretch of the imagination, but I did my best. It did not turn out well, but that didn’t matter.
I knew enough to wait until the pan was hot on the stove before putting in the egg, but I forgot to put something in the pan to keep the egg from sticking. Yeah, I’m just that bad.
About halfway through, when the egg wouldn’t flip without leaving a significant portion of itself on the pan, I figured out that I should have put butter in there or something. So what was supposed to be a simple fried egg ended up being a chopped fried egg, because I got mad and hacked it to bits.
After the egg was done, I set it aside, thinking that I’d just eat it myself. I tried again, this time remembering the butter in the bottom of the pan. Namine’s fried egg came out almost perfectly that time, but she didn’t want it. She wanted the chopped egg. The way she said it, it was more like Chopped Egg: Daddy Cuisine Special. She didn’t mind that I screwed it up; she loved it because I made it just for her.
Namine doesn’t care that I now know how to make a proper fried egg. Every time I make her an egg, she requests a chopped egg. It’s ours now, something special that we share, just the two of us.