Of Life and Little Things

“Ok, here’s a test,” I say to Dan as I pad into the room that houses my recipe books. Wearing a man’s flannel robe and felt slippers I look frumpy and disheveled. “At what temperature do we cook shirred eggs? I’m thinking three twenty-five degrees.” I have been making shirred eggs for the last thirty years, but can never remember the oven temperature.

“Three hundred-seventy five,” Dan yells from the kitchen. Reaching up at the top shelf of cookbooks, I take down the hand-written recipe book that I made for Dan before we lived together. Page twenty-six is entitled, Shirred Eggs, and has a drawing of two eggs nestled in an oval casserole dish. I read, “ Set oven to three hundred-seventy-five degrees. Cook for sixteen to eighteen minutes.”

“You won,” I say as I set the oven temperature. Yawning, I melt two tablespoons of butter in a pan. Then, for good measure, I butter the sides of our small oval dishes, placing two slices of round Canadian bacon side-by-side in both dishes. Carefully, I crack an egg over each slice, pour melted butter on top and slide them carefully into the oven. Dan sets the timer. Not fully awake yet in our pre-coffee state, we lean against the counter and stare stupidly at the little yellow-stained glass window on the oven door as if it were a computer monitor.

When the timer rings, I carry each dish to the table, using potholders, and place each on a pewter plate. Dan carries a platter with toast and oranges. Speckles of browned butter bubble enticingly on the eggs. “Don’t burn yourself; they’re still very hot,” I warn Dan, who is already savoring a forkful of bacon and egg.

“Why can’t I ever remember the cooking temperature after all these years?” I complain in-between bites.

“It’s your number thing,” Dan replies. My number thing is dyscalculia, a learning disability which disrupts the areas of the brain that deal with numbers and math.

“Humph,” I grunt and spread currant jam on my toast. “I also can’t recall the name for our little casserole dishes,” I complain. I reach for my cell phone and search for oval baking dish names. “Aha! They are called, “au gratin” dishes. I used to know that and I still had to look it up.”

“But it’s good to look things up,” Dan says, mopping his dish with toast. “That way, you keep updating your knowledge. Each time you do, it’s a lesson in life.” I considered this as I sipped my coffee.

“No…the time you spend updating your knowledge IS life. Life is made up of series of thoughts and actions; little everyday stuff. I think many of us keep waiting for the big things. As a result, life slips right through our fingers like water. If we don’t pay attention to the little moments, we shortchange ourselves and think of life as something that happens to others, but not us. 

“So do you think that by really concentrating on this morning’s breakfast you will remember the temperature of the oven for cooking shirred eggs?”

“Not likely. But what I will remember is that you guessed the correct temperature setting. Next time, I won’t have to look it up; I’ll just ask you.”