Chapter 23 - Fluffy Omelets

According to Boy: According to "www.cook.com," the following is one way to make a "Fluffy Omelet":
2 tbsp. quick-cooking tapioca

3/4 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. pepper

3/4 c. milk

1 tbsp. butter

4 egg whites

4 egg yolks

Combine tapioca, salt, pepper and milk in saucepan. Cook and stir over medium heat until mixture comes to a boil. Stir in butter. Remove from heat; cool slightly.

Meanwhile, beat egg whites until stiff. Beat yolks until thick and lemon colored. Gradually blend tapioca mixture into egg yolks; fold into whites. Pour into a hot buttered 10-inch skillet. Cook over low heat for 3 minutes, then bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 minutes, or until a knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Cut across at right angle to pan handle, but do not cut all the way through. Carefully fold from handle to opposite side. Turn out onto serving platter. This produces four servings.

I am not sure if that was the recipe Evie used for that first breakfast she cooked for me, but it might have been. Let me set the stage for this culinary adventure:

We had just moved into our Glendale apartment, and this was our first breakfast together as a married couple, aside from those we bought at restaurants. Evie wanted to impress me. So, after consulting Betty Crocker, she decided that she would make me a Fluffy Omelet. I think it was a Saturday morning, or maybe a Sunday morning. I do know that I was still in bed, and she was up banging pans in the kitchen.

When I finally started to get up, she ordered me back in bed, and then told me that she would call me when she was ready for me. I was concerned. I had never remembered her cooking before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Finally, after an inordinate amount of time, she said I could get up. I was anxious to see what all the pan clanging was about.

I went into the kitchen, and there it was. It was setting on my plate like nothing I had ever seen before. "Looks good, what is it?"

"Do you want to try it?" she asked insecurely.

"Sure," I said as I put a fork in, and ate a bite. It was good. I wasn’t quite sure why she was just sitting there watching me. I ate a few more bites, and asked again, "I like it, what is it?"

Then she broke into tears. I had no idea why she did that, either. "What’s wrong?" I asked.

"You hate it, don’t you?"

"No. Babe, I like it. I just have never had anything like it before. It’s good."

"No it isn’t. I messed it up. I’m sorry. I’ll never cook again."

She was in total tears by now.

I got up and walked around behind her chair, and pulled it out. "Stand up," I said to her.

She did.

"Now turn around."

She did that too.

I then hugged her, up close and full body. With my thumbs I wiped away the tears from her cheeks. She was looking into my eyes with her brown (almost black) eyes.

"Evie, I mean it. It is good. But, you know what? You could set a plate of screws and nails in front of me, and it would not change the way I love you. You did a great job, and it is good. I appreciate it. But I did not marry you for your cooking. I married you for a lot of other reasons—not one of them was your cooking."

"But I’m a total failure as a wife. I cannot even cook a fluffy omelet right. It’s horrible. I tried it," she said. She had stopped crying. That meant she believed me, but she still needed some reassurance.

"Look, Babe, I love you because I love you—whether or not you ever touch a pan to a stove again for the rest of your life, I will still love you with all of my heart. You have to know that."

"Do you mean it?"

"More than anything."

Then, we ended this "fight" just like we ended every other fight during the next forty years—I kissed her soft sweet lips, and smelled the hot scent of passion emanating from her body. We stood embracing in the kitchen for several minutes.

The floor was much too hard, so I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. And there we made love until we died. The next thing I remember was waking up to the barking of our neighbor’s twin Saint Bernard puppies—it was nearly one o-clock in the afternoon.

Evie has never attempted another fluffy omelet. I sort of wish she would. I can’t say that it was the best breakfast I ever had, but the dessert was great.