There are many, many reasons why I love my husband, but this just might be the shiny one at the top of the pile:

The man can make an omelette! Just look!

I’m too impatient for the omelette-making trade. I’d much rather spend my time making banana-blueberry cakes with crumbly oatmeal toping. My breakfasts, aside from the occasional quiche, take the lower, less artful road of the commingled, jumbled, disheveled scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits.

My, but it DOES sound like a delicacy when I put it just that way!

Often, I delude myself into believing that I can make an omelette. I start out just fine…I can add eggs to a pan like nobody’s business. Then, my downfall: I add the cheese and fresh vegetables, the aromatic bliss clouding my senses. I hurriedly reach for the spatula, racing to fold my enticing egg sandwich. Sadly, it is always too early to fold. The omelette is ruined. I make short work of the semi-set eggs, leading them the way of the scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits dish that I’ve mastered so well.

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