M’omelette for One

You wake up to find yourself shrunken down to one inch tall. You look up and see your mother towering above you. She bends over and picks you up, holding you in her motherly palm. You are like a bug in her hand but she loves you.

“There you are, ladybug! My sweet little aphid! Now climb into Mama’s pocket where you will be safe.”, she says, too sweetly. “OK, ma, take it down a notch!”, you reply as you nestle into her apron pocket. “I’m not a kid, you know.”

As Mama goes about her daily business, you, riding in her apron pocket, start to see the world through a new lens. Not only do you watch Mama as she toils to clean the house & make dinner for the family, you also learn just how good of a singing voice she has. All day she sings

made up jingles to imaginary products and services. “Come on down to Pumpkin Town, pick your own right off the ground, tall or short, fat and round, get ‘em down at pumpkin town!” Mama sang. Sitting in her apron pocket all morning, you have become famished watching Mama prepare

her famous Western-style scrambled eggs. They were like a Western omelette but Mama had never mastered the art of omelette making. You peer over the edge of her apron pocket and wonder if you could jump over to the table. And what would Mama think if she saw you?

Mama—with her huge arms—sprinkles Old Bay on the anchovies and caramelized onions. The smells are glorious but overwhelm your nostrils. You wait til breakfast’s served then hop out the apron and into a diner’s breast pocket—the closest you’ve gotten to freedom and you savor it.