Over the last month I’ve become pretty decent at frying an egg. One could say, not incorrectly, that frying an egg isn’t exactly the most difficult test of kitchen acumen, but for some reason I’ve never been very good at it. (For the record making rice is even more my culinary Kryptonite however that’s a story for another day). But my routine for the last two weeks has me, mid-morning, adding two over-easy fried eggs to a couple of small, warm tortillas, burying the thing in Tapatio, and it’s instant bliss. I’ve found the keys are plenty of butter in the pan and a sprinkle of smoked Spanish paprika. It’s a work in progress but I’m getting better every day.
In direct contrast to my rising fortunes in egg handling lies the potential for my note writing to languish. Since I’m not traveling for my work nor leaving the house in the morning before my family is awake, I’ve lost two prime opportunities for leaving notes. Oftentimes before heading off on a trip, or on a Friday morning after a long week, I’d jot down a little something and leave it on the kitchen island. It was all easy-peasy to do and I didn’t think too much about it until just recently when Wendy brought it up.
She remarked that for her, getting a note like that, even one that didn’t say a whole heck of a lot, meant the world. It told her that even though I wasn’t physically with her and the kids, I was on her side (Pete Yorn, great song) and we were on the same team.
Over the years I’ve come to know that Wendy – and there are no doubt others – responds just as enthusiastically, and maybe even more so, to written words as she does spoken ones. Of course she loves hearing me tell her things like, “Gee, your hair smells terrific”, or “Honey, that’s a real smart pantsuit”, but write her a note and you’ve made a friend for life.