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She showed her friends her childhood bedroom, the wood-burning stove where they’d make pancakes as a family, and described the scrambled egg sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise that her dad would make.

They’re always good about making a scrambled egg for our baby that sometimes she’ll eat, which is a major win.

A small mound of scrambled egg.

She recently read a few out loud to me that sounded like a gloriously mundane piece of postmodern poetry: “lettuce wraps,” “scrambled egg,” “bloody Mary,” “puff pastry,” “hard candy,” “light beer.”

This particular configuration gets stacked with bacon, scrambled egg, cheddar and roasted tomato jam, with plenty of the latter lending the taste of pizza sauce on the sweeter side.