As a child I hated any egg that was not hard boiled.

Hate is not an overstatement.  It might, in fact be an understatement.  I loathed eggs that were not boiled.

Easter eggs? Sure.  Hard boiled eggs mashed up with butter, salt and pepper?  Yes please.  Deviled eggs?  Yes, and did I mention I love you?

But if they were poached, fried, scrambled or made into an omelet you could take a flying leap.  Don’t even try it.  That meant no quiche. No frittata either.  I was strictly anti any egg that was not hard boiled in it’s magical shell storage device.  Until…

Until the first time I ever flew on a plane…

I’m not sure how it all came together but the first time I flew on a plane I was with my mom and torturous older brother.  I’m pretty sure we were on a plane to Houston, Texas.  We were moving there because my father was once again transferred. He’d gone ahead of us to find a place while we stayed behind to sell our house in California.  Oh and to get another cat which I’m fairly certain was less of gift for me than it was a punishment for my father.

But there we were on the plane, my mom, Matty and me high above the world looking down at solid land and it occurred to me that what we were doing was impossible but none the less it was happening.  I sat in my magical air chariot with my bratty brother seeming severely less enchanted by the magic of the moment than I was while my mom tried to manage us both.  Before I knew it a meal was placed in front of me and I was told to eat.  I probably would have done anything I was told to then.  I was afraid and elated and curious so when the stewardess (they called them that back then, they really did) set down the tray in front of me, I picked up my little fork and dove right into when turned out to be eggs that were not, in fact, hard boiled.

I ate my first omelet that day, high above the earth looking down with curious wonder.  I didn’t like it as much as I liked flying, but it wasn’t bad.