Swimming Up the Plate.


I just cooked some salmon for my dad.

This shouldn’t have felt like a momentous occasion, but it did. A fanfare would have been appropriate. The meal was so successful. even the fish might have let out a little cheer - if it wasn’t dead and had vocal cords, that is.

Making food for my dad hasn’t always been triumphant. We've had a chequered culinary past. The worst instance was during my early teens, when he taught me how to fry an egg. It was going well until I attempted to slide it from the pan onto the plate. A combination of stress and lack of confidence caused the egg to disappear down the paper-thin gap between the oven and the kitchen wall. It was never seen again.

(We laughed a lot.)

Thankfully, no part of today’s meal went astray. The transition from baking tray to plate was textbook. My dad was impressed by the results. I think I may finally exorcised the demon of the missing egg.

Perhaps it'll be discovered by a future habitant.

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