Feb 23, 2018 3 min read

Call me the Eggman. Or Eggmom, whatever.

These days are about making scrambled-egg sandwiches – so many and so often, in fact, that any truck stop diner would be happy to have me as a short-order cook during breakfast.

This is all the doing of my daughter who, at 18, is very good at many things, but cooking for herself is not one of them. Most school days she will text me from her basement bedroom and ask for a sandwich. I head for the kitchen and begin the daily drill.

The bread goes into the toaster first, so it has time to get almost burnt. Put oil in the pan, get it hot, crack in two eggs, smoosh them around, shape them into a rectangle, pop out and catch the toast midair, butter one of them, slide the egg in between, cut it in half, take it down to her.

On weekends, she and whatever friend slept over will wander upstairs and my drill will begin. We burn through eggs around here like they were oxygen molecules.

This is just the latest phase in the unusual eating habits of that child. It started when she was an infant and, after being diagnosed with a dairy allergy, was switched to soy milk. She drank gallons of the stuff. That she has grown to almost 6 feet tall might be attributed to all the soy.

She eventually grew out of the allergy and the soy. That began what we’ll call the evening salad phase. Each of her thousand or so days between third and sixth grades was ended with a bedtime salad: romaine or iceberg lettuce, feta cheese, sliced cucumbers, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper. She did a lot of dance classes then, and she’d return home from practice hungry and maybe a bit dehydrated and craving something sour and crunchy.

Eventually she’d had enough of that, and turned to phase three, the Pittsburgh Turkey Sandwich. We lived a few miles from a restaurant that served a sandwich stuffed with turkey, cheese and French fries. I tried making it at home, but she declared it “not the same.” And so, a couple of times a week we would drive to the restaurant. I would drink coffee while she ate two-thirds of the sandwich and a side of steamed broccoli. For years, it was her only craving. And then, almost overnight, that left her, too.

There are people who thrive on variety and trying new things, never ordering the same meal twice when dining out. These are people afraid of missing out on something great. My daughter is from the other wing of the family palate – the people who always order the same thing because they are afraid they won’t like anything else. (These are the same people who can watch a movie 80 times.) At least she gets stuck on cravings for semi-healthy food.

Soon enough she will be done with the egg sandwiches, and she’ll be on to the next food. I hope it doesn’t involve waiting for water to boil, or chopping onions. Besides, it’s time that she starts cooking for herself. It’s getting a little ridiculous.

On school mornings I wrap her sandwich in a paper towel and take it downstairs and deliver it into her hands, nice and warm and buttery. She’s such a princess.

I guess that means I can call myself a queen.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.