the symphony and the skillet

the symphony and the skillet
My family is, well, to put it mildly… vocal to say the least (which we can never seem to bring ourselves to do) although there are a few members who are comparatively men/women of few words, when they talk, brace yourselves, because they'll probably be talking over you or will be pretty trashed by that time.

My household however, which consists of my father and I, is actually fairly quiet as far as conversation goes. We tend to go about our own way and what not. We talk, but its never the flutter of conversations that one would probably expect from the both or either of us. What we do however do is talk to objects, the dog, and ourselves. Well sing fragments of songs usually unintentionally turning it into something of a parody half way through. Then I usually try to guess what song my father thought he was singing.

This will tie in, I swear. Or it least it should.

Many fond memories of our families usually include food. Which isn't surprising since scent is the sense that can most strongly evoke memories of the past, and holidays all have their rightful and respectful dishes - families tend to gather on holidays. Food is always around and recipes are shared, or in some cases sabotaged or hidden. turkeys get burnt, somebody forgets or drops the pie, the person least skilled with a grill will some how end up at that station. there is birthday cake, Halloween candy, Christmas cookies, valentines day candy, easter eggs, 4th of july BBQ and apple pie, thanks giving, new years day black eyed peas, wedding cake, and in some families there is a traditional dish of fish served after a funeral. You get my point.

Yet there are other - almost more intimate memories that tether family and food to one another. Breakfast is always one that I remember always have really. Breakfast is probably the one meal that I could tell you the most about from the memories Ive held on to.


Back to my house, in the here and now. Mind you, the breakfast experiences that I still hold fondly are currently vastly different than the memories of days past. But memorable all the same. We don't really cook that much. There is no family dinner, the breakfast table is cluttered with a mountain of shit including me typing this right now. But a few times a week my father will make eggs. sometimes a fried egg sandwich, sometimes scrambled eggs and toast, others who the fuck knows. I always know when this is because even without my sense of smell taken into account, I can hear the symphony begin. The refrigerator door opens, the rummaging through the shelves, the squeak of the Styrofoam, that is the last of the strings warming up, as if clearing their voice before speaking. the two eggs set on the counter. This is the maestro tapping the stand to signal the begin of the culinary opus.

The tub of smart balance hit's the countertop, the muffled whispering of the twist tie and cellophane that houses the bread, and the click of the toaster lever locking into place.

Then the shell crack.

This is when I know that the crescendo is about to begin the prelude is the microwave door slamming, the hum of the coffee being reheated -for entirely too long, the ding, and then the sharp guttural intake and sigh of coffee and cruel joke of a ceramic mug that that is still too hot and has caused more scalded fingers than any styling tool. Right on the heels of this is the pop of the toast.

OH! Jesus…

My father is always taken aback by this sound

The scraping of the buttering of the toast

Ahhhhhh, ya fuck…

He pierced the toast or used the end piece by accident


Then the flip. The flip that both lola and I wait for. The flip that even if successful, is always a close call

"COCCCCK" (usually pronounced "CAKC") followed by a muttered and barely audible "….sssssssssucker"

I always know my fathers cooking when I hear the word cock yelled in my house.



Now this is what prompted me to share this little glimpse into my day to day family life… because the other day, there was a slight deviant in the usually methodical procession. Greatly in part because I introduced daddy to egg beaters

"Emily, I think the dog is sick"

"why"

"shes usually right here waiting at my feet"

"she hasn't heard her cue yet"

"oh you mean COCCCK?"

And with that we hear the tell tale jingle belling of my dog scampering into the kitchen, and right on cue, sits at my fathers feet looking straight up either in hopes that the omelette is for her, or that hell drop something.

Its funny how we learn our own little social cues, and what we see as a signifier of certain events to come.

Its been a long time since ive delved back into my semiotic theories. And I either thank you or pity you for sticking with me for this long on a ridiculous diatribe of breakfast memories, clutter, yet another pointless story involving my dog, and the slight bouts of voluntary tourettes that seem to go on in the kitchen with Dinah, wherever he may be.