The Master Egg Chef had a setback the other morning.
“Sorry, Daddy,” he said as I walked into the kitchen. “I burnt the eggs.”
I shrugged. “That’s too bad.”
“I thought that smell was just the cinnamon. It wasn’t. They were burning.” He looked really depressed.
“I didn’t mean to burn them.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It happens to everybody. . . ”
He nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Else.” I finished with a grin.
Heh, heh, heh. I may have lost the title of Master Egg Chef, but I’m finding ways to cope.
Great Grandpa Emerson used to burn his scrambled eggs regularly..Maybe C has inherited a gene? Hehehe