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.

“It’s okay.”

“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.

“Da-addy!”

Heh, heh, heh. I may have lost the title of Master Egg Chef, but I’m finding ways to cope.