Order Up

It turns out the more nonstick omelet pans you jerk around, your skills might just slightly increase.  I continue to pass off B+ eggs in whatever fashion possible.  Next time you're at a restaurant and it looks like the bacon is just casually draped over the edge of your eggs, or the potatoes are piled gracefully -- distractingly -- while nudging your yolk, know that it is not chance.  No, it's artifice, and it's hiding a mistake.  Wow, what a generous amount of raisins on your oatmeal!  (Please don't realize that the oatmeal itself is aging, gluey.)

And it makes me feel better when someone who's been cooking for many years, experienced with the idiosyncrasies of our grumpy, always-way-too-hot oven, burns the bacon just as often as I do.  This I can master, though, with the super technology of the timer.  Its one flaw: needing to be set.

Now I just have to quell my murderous Pavlovian reaction whenever the horrible dot-matrix ticket printer blipscree-spits out an order.

Walking off stress is pretty awesome in this place, though:

Even when the mountains are foreboding and you can't see an inch into the murky river, at least you don't have to worry about toast being sent back.