The other day, my wife got up to cook breakfast.
The closest thing I can compare her to in the mornings would be a zombie sloth. She is definitely as far from a morning person as she can be.
I could smell the bacon as I was getting ready and was as excited as a dog going to the park.
I came out dressed eager to see what awaited me at the breakfast table.
I arrived to a plate full of bacon scrambled eggs and toast that she had gotten out of bed early to prepare.
I was beginning to wonder what she wanted as this was as rare as a day of not receiving a robodial phone call.
But to my surprise it was nothing. She just made breakfast.
The bacon was delicious, crisp as a fall morning.
The toast, a perfect shade of light brown like God intended.
The eggs..... nothing in my life had prepared me for that moment.
I bit into the eggs and I felt as though I had tasted the Dead Sea.
There was enough salt on those eggs, the ocean would've tasted like a fresh mountain spring in a similar way dessert makes good sweet tea seem like water.
My mouth drew up like a snake coiled and ready to strike.
I rushed for my milk glass to attempt to stop my mouth from turning into the Mojave desert and am still unsure I made it in time.
So now as I'm finishing my breakfast, my mouth dryer than an Arizona summer, through my chapped lips I uttered...
"Thank you for breakfast dear, It was delicious."
I am still unsure how to approach the stand the next time she decides to make breakfast, but I don't know if I can go through that again.