Very occasionally we'll get in the mood for a big breakfast on Sunday mornings. I should amend that. It's likely that we're often in the mood; it's just rare that we get around to actually making that big breakfast. I wish we did it more. (I also wish we'd had vodka for bloody mary's but that's a story for another day, I suppose.)

This past weekend was a whirlwind, part of which was having company come through for dinner Saturday night. I made our favorite potatoes, and despite the fact that they seem to be everyone's favorite potatoes, we had leftovers. So Sunday morning we heated up the leftover potatoes, and I made scrambled eggs to go with them.

As I was cooking, I tried to remember when I learned to make scrambled eggs. Or did I actually ever learn? Did it just evolve, this egg business? I can remember when I first really started cooking for myself, sometime in high school, and coming home and making omlettes. Way harder than scrambled eggs, so it had to start somewhere. I haven't made an omlette in years and years. I have to think the last time I made one was standing in my childhood kitchen, using the pan that you didn't wash exactly, but instead just wiped out.

Is it like riding a bike, I wonder? Omlette-making? Will that wrist-flick and flip come back to me if I try again. We should make omlettes sometime. We really should. But I sure like scrambled eggs.