I had a craving, so I tried to make an omelet for breakfast today.

Phase 1: I chopped up some onion and mushrooms, I shred some cheddar, I added milk to the egg mixture to make the eggs fluffier, just like my mother used to do. I salted and peppered heartily.

However, Phase 2 didn't go nearly so well.

It went poorly, in fact.

I couldn't keep it together; I ended up having to scramble the eggs.

In my defense, I have the world's tiniest yet heaviest cast-iron frying pan, and I don't have a spatula. These obstacles might have done me in. Of course, the offense might point out that I have never successfuly made an omelet even when I did have a huge wok and a spatula.

Back in the day, when all three kids were working at Kemper, the whole family would sometimes go to the Kemper clubhouse for Sunday brunch.

They had an omelet bar.

I've seen it done so many times. Omelet chefs make it look so easy. Yet when the moment comes for the flip, things fall apart for me.

So I scramble.

Phase 3: In the end, it all tastes the same, I guess. It was an aesthetic thing, though, you know? Texture.