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Within thirty seconds the rashers are turning brown, on their way to an ugly burnt black. Bree observes my bacon-cooking process.
“Whatever you’re making, Ali, it’s about to burn,” she says. Oh, really? Good observation. That’s what I’m thinking, but that’s not what I say. I don’t need to because Nana is immediately on top of it.
“You need some butter in that pan,” Nana says as she finishes slicing the potatoes she’s been peeling.
“There’s smoke coming from it,” Jannie says, and, helpful as always, she then pulls the faucet hose from the sink and douses the pan with water.
Steam and smoke start billowing. I guess it’s sorta good: there is no doubt that the bacon isnotburning anymore.
Nana turns around and looks at the drowning bacon.
“What on earth is boiling in that pan, Ali?” she asks.
“The bacon,” I say. She looks in the pan.
“That’s not bacon, young man. That there looks like somebody sliced up the bologna I bought for sandwiches.”
Jannie and I both start cracking up, of course. I can tell that my dad wants to be stern about the whole situation, but Bree can’t hold it in. She tries hard to keep her lips closed, but then she actually spits out a laugh. The craziness and laughter is contagious. Even my dad’s big deephee-hawfills the room.
Nana is the only one staying serious. Not because she doesn’t appreciate the fun, but she’s just too busy jumping around the cooking area. We watch her carry the ridiculously heavy pan over to the sink with oven mitts. She pours most of the boiling water from the pan right into the sink, losing just a few pieces of bologna along the way. Then she moves it back to the stovetop and drops in a big glob of butter. As the butter sizzles she adds her sliced potatoes and shakes the pan really hard. The potatoes start turning all brown and crispy. She gives them a good pinch of salt. Then she beats the eggs with a dinner fork and pours them in, too. She dumps in a bunch of spices from the spice rack, along with salt and pepper and a few big shots of Tabasco.
“I’m going to try and turn this disgusting mess into a real special omelet,” she says. “You all go sit down.”
But we’re too hypnotized by Nana Mama’s magic show to even move.
We watch as the “disgusting mess” starts to thicken. Then it starts to turn a pale yellow. Then it solidifies. Then it puffs up. Then Nana Mama lifts the pan.
“Quick, Bree! Get me a platter,” Nana yells. Bree grabs an oversized plate.
Nana tips the pan and the omelet falls out perfectly, beautifully, onto the plate.
My dad, never much of a guy for joking around, yells out in a sort of phony preacher-type voice, “It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!”
Of course, the rest of us laugh.
And as we should have expected, the omelet really is something of a miracle. It is incredibly delicious.
“Man, wow. This is sooo good,” says Jannie.
“Yeah,” I say. “We should do this every Tuesday.”
WE CARRY ONso much about Nana Mama’s bologna omelet being delicious that as we eat it, we beg her like little kids to take the leftover eggs and make another. Dad doesn’t join in on the begging. He’s really into being “the grown-up in the room.”
Then Jannie points out that we have no more bologna. No prob. Nana Mama says that she had a few uncooked hot dogs hidden in the back of the fridge and that “frankfurters are nothing but bologna meat all pushed into a sausage casing.” So Dad and I share another (but smaller) omelet. Then we have a contest as to which of us can moan the loudest because we’re so full.
Okay, Jannie was right. My real reason for coming up with the whole “breakfast-for-supper” idea was to get back on Nana’s (who knew I was sneaking around) and Dad’s (who also knew I was sneaking around, even if he didn’t want to talk about it) good sides. It all worked out for me on so many levels. Peace. Calm.
I’m lying in bed right now and I’m barely thinking about the debate and Ms. Swanbeck and Sienna and the whole class watching us. I’m not even thinking about the fact that I’ve still got a week of bullying and name-calling and even a possible physical fight before the actual debate itself. Full of bologna and hot dogs and eggs, I’m doing some school reading and I’m ready to turn out the light when… damn it all… I hear my phonepingwith a new alert message from Gabe’s police scanner app.
I read my screen and find out that a “disturbed/disoriented woman, age approx. eighty-five, is causing disruption in Q Street and Minnesota area.” The report is followed by a text from Gabe. Of course, Gabe had not recently eaten a ten-pound omelet. So he’s at peak enthusiasm about this police alert.
Here’s his text.
C U on Q and Min near monument in 10 mins.
Damn again. Now I’ve got moral dilemmas and ethical dilemmas popping up all over the place. I won back Nana’s trust and possibly even my father’s trust, and here I am thinking of sneaking out for another police adventure.
I make that funny face—the one where you squint your eyes real tight—like that’s going to help you decide. But this time it doesn’t help me. My eyes just hurt. I make a decision. Unfortunately, all that squinting helps me to make the wrong decision, of course. As I get ready, I’m even sort of hoping that Nana or Bree or my dad will hear me, and I’ll be forced to abandon the mission. But no such bad luck. Gabe is waiting, and I’ve got to move.
