One snowy morning in February, I got the idea in my thirteen-year-old mind that I was going to make my mother breakfast. I glanced in her room to make sure she was still sleeping and entered the kitchen knowing exactly what I was going to make: eggs and toast. I had watched my mom make it countless mornings and thought I could do it too. I took a skillet out, placed it on our gas stove, turned the dial and saw the blue flames flicker beneath my pan. I retrieved two eggs from the fridge and cracked them into a bowl, since I only had to remove one eggshell I thought I was doing exceptionally well. I beat the eggs with a whisk as I had seen my mother expertly do so many times, and poured the eggs into the skillet. I heard the familiar hissing sound of the eggs hitting the scorching pan and felt reassured that I was on the right path. Moving on to the toast, on to the toast. I took out two pieces of bread from the fridge, popped them straight into the toaster oven and turned the dial to start it. By the time I focused my attention back to my eggs, I realized something had gone horribly wrong. The scrambled eggs I made which were meant to be yellow and fluffy, had come out browned and rubbery. …show more content…
The only thing I could do was clean the skillet and put it back on the stove. I turned the dial on the stove once more but this time made sure the flames were smaller. I took out two more eggs and beat them, this time determined they would turn out edible. When they hit the pan, I heard them sizzle and with each prod of the spatula I watched them turn into the yellow, fluffy eggs I’d come to know. I turned my stove off and set them on a plate. I then took out another two pieces of bread, lowered the toaster oven’s heat setting and watched the toast to make sure it never surpassed a golden brown. I took my toast out, placed it on the plate next to the eggs and presented my mother with the breakfast I made for