breakfast in bed

I am still the girl, sitting on the floor of our kitchen on East 56th Street, my mom sleeping late with a baby in her belly, my dad cooking up "breakfast in bed" on the stove.

If you asked me to tell the greatest joy of my childhood, (besides jumping off a slow, low chairlift at Mount Snow with Jenni Eisenberg, at the height of our pre-adolescent rebellion), I would say it was making breakfast in bed for my parents.

Balancing juice on a tray, laying out the designer white paper napkin, the fork, the spoon. Putting cereal in a bowl, or toast on a plate, since I didn't really cook yet.

The long, slow, steady walk to the bedroom, balancing the tray, not knowing yet that to look at where you're going as opposed to looking at the tray is the way to do it, taking small, careful steps.

Thinking of my dad's initiation of this ritual makes me giggle as I did then -- though then it was a shriek of delight that woke my mom, ruining a bit of the surprise.

He was cooking an omelette, and thought he'd impress me by flipping it. He didn't. Softish in the middle, it dripped along the oven, and I remember shaking my head in disbelief at the mess, thinking he'd be in trouble. The "ooh you're going to the principal" kind of trouble, since in my 5-year old mind, and maybe still, mom ruled the kitchen sector.

I have been thinking alot lately of this type of memory, before I knew who I knew who I was, or who I would become. I still don't really know. I know parts of me, but not all of me. It takes my family and friends to reflect myself onto me. As I'm going with some trepidation, and also excitement, into my next project, I'm at their every whim. How do I create the lifetime of memories of food and recipes and travel and my hometown into 600 feet? That is the task, and I'm taking it on, all in the name of flavor and fun.