The lesson from an Omelette

Mom asked if I wanted to skip work and go shopping with her. I realised the sarcasm in that the minute I left my bed, smiling like a kid told there’s no school. It looked sunny through the bedroom curtains, and my belly was growling, so I deduced it was past 8, the time at which I usually leave home.

“I’ll give you a ride, just shower.” Mom said, standing in the doorway. She was angry.

“What about breakfast?” I faintly asked. But she had stomped off to her room.

I hurriedly jumped into the kitchen to pour porridge, because nothing else satisfies my hunger in the morning. I usually let it simmer, cool down before I down it in a flash when I finally finish getting ready. It saves time, which I often waste scrolling through social media.

“Can I at least get an omelette?” I asked from the hallway.

Mom sprang past me, murmuring how late I was, and consequently, how late she was. To where or what? I didn’t care at the moment. “You don’t need an omelette,” she said, “Just grab a banana.”

It was ten past nine when I left the shower. I could hear Mom close cabinets in her room, waggling her car keys. If this was to scare me, it was working. I put on some blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a broken Apple watch, and of course, my glasses. I didn’t clean my shoes; there was no time. This journey of life was already dirty and bloodied, that it just made me seem prepared for the mess.

However, when I was teacanting the porridge, I really craved an omelette. Mom shouted, “TWO MINUTES!” from her room. But when the said two minutes passed, and Mom wasn’t storming out of the house yet, I drowsily picked five eggs from the fridge, beat them, seasoned them with salt and pepper, lurked around the house for any sounds from Mom, sipped my porridge, and heat the oil on an old pan—the only one I could find in the kitchen.

I kept smiling to myself. Partly because I was beating my own record of making an omelette under 3 minutes, but also because I was defying Mom’s orders. I liked to do that. I poured the eggs into the pan, tilting it ever so slightly from one side to another to allow the eggs to swirl and cover the surface of the pan completely.

I placed the omelette on a plate on the dining table, brushed my teeth real fast, picked up my backpack, and spent several seconds double-checking my face in the mirror. I didn’t hear Mom step out. I only realised it when I found the carefully placed plate empty.

“You will be a terrible cook,” she said.

“You ate MY OMELETTE?”

“I told you, you didn’t need it.”

“But it was mine!”

“And that’s my house, and this is my car and my fuel I’m using to take you to work. What’s your point exactly?”

I shut up after that. She drove me downtown, blasting Radio Maria station and singing songs the whole ride while I sat there, angry and silent.

Safe to say, I thought about moving out. But I realised that night that if not for my Mom driving me fast, I would not have a job at the end of the day, and because my job paid shit, I would not be able to afford buying eggs regularly in this economy. Or time to cook porridge.

Things don’t often go our way. You could pour everything into what you want, you could defy the odds, you could anger your Mom. But in the end, we only have so much control. The trick is not to be bitter. But perhaps to wake up early. That’s what I learnt from getting my omelette stolen.