Like Mother...

Once upon a time, way back when I was a junior in college, my science teacher invited me and my best friend, let’s call her Roxann, since that’s her actual name, to go on a road trip. This road trip consisted of Mrs. V, her best friend (her name might have been Kristy but I honestly have no idea because guys, it was like three hundred years ago) and me and Roxann.

We were headed from the far northeastern corner of Indiana to McCormick’s Creek State Park, which is southwest of Indianapolis. Don’t ask me why our teacher invited us along or what the purpose of this trip even was. I just remember that we went and it seemed like no big deal at the time. I also remember that we had a really great time.
We left on a Friday morning and returned on Sunday. So yes, we spent two nights in a hotel room with a teacher and her friend. Looking back, it seems like it should have been weird but at the time, there was no weirdness.

I remember walking around the state park with Roxann, exploring fallen trees and checking out sink holes. I also remember taking pictures with a disposable camera. I know I have those pictures somewhere in my vast collection of boxes collecting dust in our garage.

But! What I remember most actually has nothing to do with environmental biology (that was the class that Mrs. V was teaching us that year) or even with the state park.

I remember going out for breakfast on our way back up to the corner of northeastern Indiana. We stopped at a diner to fortify ourselves for the arduous journey that would take about three and a half hours.

As we gave the waitress our orders, I asked for eggs and toast. The waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs cooked.

Now, let me remind everyone that I grew up in a VERY small town and we rarely, if ever, went out to eat for breakfast. My mom made eggs two ways, fried and scrambled.

So, I asked for my eggs to be fried. The server just stood there and asked, “But how do you want them cooked?”
I didn’t understand the question. I mean, what? I wanted them fried, what was so confusing about that?

Finally, after what felt like ages of silence, Mrs. V realized that I was at a loss and asked if I wanted my yolk runny or hard.

Ahh, got it. Duh! I was so embarrassed. I asked for sunny side up eggs and the server left with relief.

Alas, I have repeated the mistakes of my youth on my own children.

One morning, one of my girls was out with her girlfriend and they were having breakfast. This child of mine ordered toast. The server asked what kind of toast she wanted. You know, white, wheat or rye?

My poor darling, socially-awkward child gave the server a confused looked and said, “Buttered?”

Ha! Hahahahaha. I mean, I couldn’t laugh at myself and the ‘fried egg’ incident until years later but oh my goodness could I laugh at my offspring and her ‘buttered toast’ moment.

Now she and her girlfriend have a code for awkward moments. They called them ‘buttered toast’ moments.

I love it.

Of course, I do feel a little bad that I’ve stunted my child by not taking her out to breakfast a little more often that I, myself, went when I was a child. But guys, let’s remember that I do so love my sleep and weekends are precious and damn it, we have eggs and bread and butter for toast at home.