Eggs for Breakfast. Apparently, That’s a Negotiation.

I made the mistake of asking everyone how they’d like their eggs this morning.

A simple question, you’d think. Four people, one frying pan, several eggs. What could possibly go wrong?

My daughter wanted scrambled, but not too scrambled. My son wanted fried, but with the yolk cooked and the white not crispy. My other half said he wasn’t fussed, which is apparently adult language for having very specific requirements that won’t be revealed until the food arrives.

I fancied mine poached.

Within five minutes, the kitchen had become a short-order restaurant run by a woman who hadn’t even had her first cup of tea.

My daughter appeared beside me to explain that her scrambled eggs should be fluffy. Not wet, not dry, just fluffy. I asked whether she’d like me to interview the chicken about its intentions.

She didn’t laugh.

My son then announced that he’d changed his mind and wanted an omelette. I asked what he’d like in it.

“Just egg.”

That’s a fried egg with ambition.

Meanwhile, my other half was hovering behind me offering helpful advice about the temperature of the pan. I handed him the spatula. He immediately remembered something important he needed to do upstairs.

Funny how that happens.

By the time everyone had been served, my tea was cold, the worktop looked as though a small agricultural incident had occurred, and I’d completely forgotten about my own breakfast.

Then my daughter took one bite and said,

“These aren’t how I imagined them.”

I looked at her. She looked at me. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard a chicken laughing.

Tomorrow we’re having toast.

Plain toast.

Although knowing this family, somebody will want theirs lightly golden, somebody will want it practically cremated, and somebody will announce they don’t like bread any more.

Tell me, does breakfast happen peacefully in your house, or are you also running an unpaid café for people who don’t leave tips?