I should preface this with the fact that I cannot for the life of me make an omelet. If someone were to tell me to make an omelet to save my life, I would die. I can’t cook omelets.
Well, on Friday, my host mom asked me to make an omelet for lunch along with mashed potatoes (from a package, quel horreur!) and a salad. I was confident in my ability to make two of those things. And neither of them was the omelet.
I hecked up my omelet. I should have made scrambled eggs. I can make scrambled eggs and fried eggs and boiled eggs and the coveted poached egg, but an omelet? Yeah right. I kept the heat low like my papa always taught me, put in my “matière grasse” and went along with my day.
Five minutes later, the egg hadn’t even started cooking, so I upped the heat a little and then it worked. I started cooking the omelet like my french mom would, but my french mom and my host mom are two completely different people, so when my host mom saw it, she was concerned by the presentation of the omelet, and not the fact that it tasted good. She also told me that my pan wasn’t hot enough to begin with and my eggs weren’t mixed well and so that’s why they stuck to the pan. But in every other house I’ve lived in, eggs stuck to the pan isn’t a death sentence.
This wasn’t either, but it brought me to tears because I can’t cook eggs and it makes me sad when someone I am consistently trying to impress tells me that they’re not well made. It’s different when my papa tells me because he’s my papa and he says it in a way that doesn’t make me feel like crying. I didn’t cry because I don’t feel comfortable showing any emotions besides happy chez les host parents, so I held it in and now that I’m with my french family, I kind of don’t care that I want to cry because here I’m at home, not work. So I might cry later because I can have emotions.
So that’s my post for this week. Happy Sunday!
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