I burn the first egg. The yellow breaks and spreads across the pan like a mess of watercolors. Dad would laugh if he saw this. He taught me how to cook eggs last summer, standing in his new apartment's tiny kitchen. "Low heat," he said. "Always low heat."
The smoke alarm starts beeping. I open a window, letting in cold morning air. It's 6AM on a Tuesday, and I'm making breakfast because I can't sleep. Because sometimes being awake alone feels better than lying in bed thinking about college decisions.
Second egg goes in. The pan's still too hot. Oil pops, hits my arm. Small red mark appears. I remember how Dad always got these marks on his arms too. Called them kitchen kisses. Made them sound like badges of honor instead of mistakes.
Mom finds me with four burnt eggs on a plate. She's still in her sleeping shirt, hair messy. Doesn't ask why I'm up so early. Just pulls out another pan. "Watch," she says. Cracks an egg with one hand like Dad used to.
The yolk stays perfect this time. Mom hums while she cooks, some old song Dad played on road trips. She pretends not to notice when I wipe my eyes. Puts bread in the toaster. Asks if I want cheese.
We eat together in a half-dark kitchen light. My burnt eggs on one plate, her perfect ones on another. She takes a bite of the burnt ones. "Not bad," she lies. Then tells me about her first time cooking alone. How she set off three smoke alarms and used up a whole carton of eggs.
The sun starts coming up. Dad gets ready for work. I clean the pans, scraping off burnt pieces. They taught me different things about cooking. Dad said it's all about patience. Mom says it's about trying again. Maybe they're both right.
Tomorrow I'll try again. Maybe the eggs will turn out better. Maybe they won't. But at least I'll know that sometimes burning breakfast at 6AM isn't really about the eggs at all.