Fluffy Omelets, According to Girl

Fluffy omelets according to Girl: Janice was my best friend in Grand Rapids. She was about fifteen years older than I. She had been through two failed marriages. She raised two boys on her own, and still found time to remodel her modest home by herself. She hung her own paneling, installed carpet, and had a real waterfall in her living room made with a heavy plastic basin, white stone and a small pump that created a soothing, relaxing place to read or listen to music. She worked in a factory during the day, while her boys attended school. I usually spent one evening a week just hanging out. My absolutely favorite thing I remember about Janice was that she was always positive about life. Life was tough for her. Not only had she suffered the breakup of two marriages, she also had to deal with breast cancer, which resulted in a double mastectomy. It didn’t affect her attitude. She handled work, kids, the house and life alone, but still managed to find time for me.


When I told her about Mike, she was my biggest cheerleader. She was delighted when we married and it was Janice that threw me my one and only shower. My family and friends all came. I received lots of things for the kitchen, like a few casserole dishes, one came with the recipe and ingredients for chicken and rice, (all except the chicken). I got an iron from my grandmother Handlogten. Janice, besides throwing the shower in her beautiful living room with the waterfall, gave me my first Betty Crocker cookbook. I had a feeling that it was going to be put to good use. I was going gourmet, and Mike would really be impressed!

So, I was off to New York. I was now a married lady. I would be expected to keep my own house, clean, do laundry, wash dishes, scrub bathrooms, make our double bed. And, best of all, I would learn to cook.

My mom was not the cook in the family when I was growing up. She consistently burned, or should I say torched, much of what she cooked. So, my dad did most of the cooking. If I did not know better, I might have suspected that there could have been a motive to Mom’s smoky meals. However, with four, then five, then (finally) six kids underfoot, she was most likely just easily distracted. Because Dad was pretty fussy about food, he became the family’s chef.

Dad would work every day until 3 p.m., then stop at Meijer (a big Grand Rapids grocery store chain) to pick up the groceries. After completing that errand, he would come home and cook.

I remember him sitting at the kitchen table, with his signature Camel hanging out of the side of his mouth. His very dark brown eyes would be squinting from the smoke. There he would peel a thousand potatoes. Using our shapest paring knife, he would deposit the potato skins upon the previous night’s paper. Because I never helped him in the kitchen, the potato preparation over a newspaper paper tactic was perhaps the only lesson I learned from him about cooking.

I took my Betty Crocker cookbook seriously. I studied it page by page as if I were going to be tested. I learned basic measurements, the art of the kitchen, how to blend, chop, and puree. I even mastered the Betty’s terminology.

"Mike" I asked, "Can Betty and I make a surprise for you on Saturday?" The plan was, he would stay in bed and I got the kitchen to myself.

That Friday, on my way home from work, I stopped at the local grocery store, and picked up all of the ingredients for my exciting Saturday Special.

I was juiced, and ready to impress. I set the table with our finest tableware. I lit a candle. Then I made coffee and toast. I placed the butter, jelly, orange juice and milk on the table, and was gearing up the fire to make the most incredible breakfast he had ever eaten.

I carefully measured the cream, beat it with the mixer until it was like white soft frosting, I whipped the eggs in a separate bowl, salted and

peppered them and folded the two mixtures together.

"Doesn’t it smell great?" I said. But Mike could not come into the kitchen yet. Of course, eggs never smell great, but I was sure he was getting hungry.

Then, just as Betty said, I poured the pale golden creation into the hot buttered frying pan until the desired time had passed. I carefully placed the spatula under the entire huge mixture and flipped it over with one swift movement.

I yelled, "Hope you’re hungry, Babe."

I placed the final creation on our plates and shouted, "Ready!"

Mike came into the kitchen, smiled at my beautiful table, sat down, we said grace, and I said "Bon appétit."

His fork went into the edge of the golden beauty and white ooze came pouring out of the side. It was slimy and dripping off his fork. He looked at me with eyes that said "Do I have to?"

It was awful. I was horrified. Betty let me down. It was all her fault. I followed her book and came out with golden blobs of slime. This was embarrassing.

And as quickly as possible, we smiled at each other, grabbed our plates, fed our disposal and marked that morning such as one would remember when Kennedy was shot. A morning permanently etched in our minds.

Janice eventually married again. This one stuck. She sold her home in Grand Rapids and moved to a small town in East Jordan, Michigan—a city with a population of around 2,500. The major industry there was the manufacturing of manhole covers .

Still, to this day, whenever I see steam rising from one of thousands of "East Jordan" labeled manhole covers that polka dot every large city, I think of her and hope she found happiness, just as I have.