Over the decades, Dad has metamorphosed from the fast food, French fry-consuming, heart-attack-waiting-to-happen man of his earlier years into the trimmer, more health-conscious specimen we see today. He’s into herbal supplements, whole grains and flax seeds. Lots of flax seeds.
During one of my twice yearly visits to Michigan to see my parents and catch up with my sister and her family, Dad offered to make me eggs for breakfast.
“Sure, Dad. Thanks,” I said.
“How do you want them?”
“Any way you wanna make ’em,” I said.
Dad grinned broadly – dare I say maniacally? – and I knew immediately by the look of mischievous glee on his face that I had made a critical error, but as I was still waking up, I couldn’t yet figure out what it was, and that bothered me.
“What? What did I say? What are you going to do to my eggs?”
“Nope! You said I could make ’em any way I wanted. It’s too late, now!”
And with that, he busied himself in the kitchen doing Lord-knows-what to my eggs. Defeated, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the dining room table next to Mom.
Before long, Dad emerged from the kitchen with my plate of eggs and set it down on the table in front of me. “Here you go!” he said enthusiastically.
I stared at the dish of scrambled eggs before me. They were infested with hundreds of tiny, dark brown specks. What the…?, I thought.
And then I knew.
“You dumped FLAX SEEDS in my scrambled eggs!”
“Yep, yep! They’re good for ya. Yum, yum!”
“Dad, flax seeds go into baked goods like breads and cookies. You do NOT scramble them into eggs!”
“Sure you do!”
“Why didn’t you just dump them in my orange juice while you were at it?”
“Hey,” he said with a wild glint in his eye, “that’s a good idea! Hand it over.”
“No!” I said, and covered my juice with my hand.
I ate the scrambled eggs, flax seeds and all. They were pretty good, too.
Thanks for making me breakfast, Dad. I’ll never have another one like it. Unless, of course, you’re in charge of breakfast.