I remember once...
…going to a diner downtown Omaha with my mom. My mom was ready - she was born ready for breakfast food. She makes the best omelettes I know and has mastered the art of skilleting hashbrowns and eggs side-by-side. Pressing her spatula down with the right pressure and turning at the right crispy brown. She doesn’t mess around with breakfast. She knows what she wants. She was ready.
I’m not so sure of myself in these parts. The best thing I do to eggs is toss a bunch of dill on them. I never seem to add enough butter, or add too much, or waffle between whether I should use butter at all or olive oil. I never get the eggs to the hot fat at the right moment. When I think of the sassy old-time pick up line “how do you like your eggs in the morning?” I shudder.
So anyway, we went to the diner which had let’s say two other people in the whole 50s retro trailer space, and we sat in a booth, and the waitress sauntered over for our order. And my mom, like I said, was ready. And then…and then… finally I decided - I’d take the scrambled eggs.
The waitress paused a moment, scoffed, said : “Pft, you could get a whole dozen eggs for that price at the grocery store.”
I thought that was the best pitch for a product that I’d ever heard. And then I ordered pancakes.
I guess what I’m saying is, I guess I’m a little sad. Looking back at the recipes I’ve explored and invented, the silky chocolate stirred. I didn’t know it would hurt so bad to create and release, to never be satisfied.
I am never satisfied. And yet tonight I took one of the broken vegan pomegranate caramels and chewed it slowly as it melted a bit with each bite. I am sad to think that I both don’t want to create these confections anymore, and that if I don’t they won’t exist in this world. However imperfect they are. It is a skill, something I have fought dearly for. I look back on the years and the things I’ve learned, not just through practice but through taste. All I ever wanted to do was create something that was worth it.
Whatever “it” is.