Flashbacks.

As I butter my toast for breakfast, I find myself remembering (what I think was) the first time I was in charge of making and buttering the toast for the routine Sunday breakfast at my dad's. We all had a hand in it, more and more so as time went on and my brother and I proved we were capable of helping without burning our fingers off or anything. I felt so grown up to be in charge of the toast because hey, toast is the cornerstone of a great breakfast. It was always eggs, toast, sausage, and sometimes pancakes (although that tapered off as I over-pancaked somewhere along the line). I smiled as I remembered doing that at the first apartment my dad lived in, the one with the really cool pantry with the metal doors that slid open and shut like an accordion -- the perfect hiding spot. It was much better than the closet because it had two sides with shelves to choose from rather than sitting in a pile of shoes underneath the coats, and it didn't have the oily, diesel-y smell of my dad's work jackets.

I also came to realize that my dad gave me my first experiences with real cooking. He let me make chocolate pudding one day for dessert. Sure, it was instant, but hey, when you're a little kid you feel like you can conquer the world after mixing it all by yourself and pouring it into the cups for everyone. My curiosity and enjoyment of cooking just grew from that point onward.

It's fun to look back and pinpoint the exact moment when you first learned to do something, and the first moment when you recall having a spark of passion for something. Try and think about that next time you're doing something you really love to do. It's interesting to see what other long lost details come to light again with those thoughts.

~"Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend." [Albert Camus]~