The eggs, in their various shades and textures, are lovely, but there's something about being this close to the spawning of my food that makes me queasy. I place the blue egg into his basket, next to one that's speckled brown.
"Yeah, lovely."
They've milked the goats, collected eggs, and taken their morning power walk, and it's only ten o'clock. Apparently, Dad is still exercising regularly, which is a relief. I can't complain that farm life won't keep him healthy. All I've accomplished is drinking coffee and scrolling through Instagram on my phone. Maybe Seth is right to think I'm spoiled and lazy. Then again, I work sixty hours a week during the school year, so I deserve a little down time in the summer.
Renata offers to make me an omelet with the eggs they've collected, and I don't want to offend her so I accept. I'm glad I do because once she starts cooking, delicious smells pervade the air. After the eggs set, she adds chopped tomatoes, spinach and red pepper to the pan.
"How do you like your omelets?" she asks. "Hard or runny?"
"I like them hard."
I smile to myself. If Hugh were here, I'd add "like my men," but Renata and Dad aren't the right audience for that joke.
Renata flips the omelet and catches it in the pan, making it look effortless, but I know it's not that easy. Add great cook to her resume.
"Renata makes the best omelets, the best everything," Dad says, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze as he peers into the pan.
"Oh, stop," she says, pretending to smack him away.
The pleased smile on her face tells a different story, and I can't blame her. Who wouldn't want to be adored this way?
She's barefoot and wearing cute cuffed shorts and a tank top. She and Dad met during their senior year of high school in Brooklyn, which means she's around fifty-five years old, but she could pass for ten years younger. I don't know much about their story, except that they dated for a while, then broke up because of their parents' opposition to interracial relationships. That was almost forty years ago, and I have no doubt my grandparents freaked out completely when they heard Dad was dating a black girl.
"Can I get drinks for everyone?" I ask.
"I'll take an orange juice," Dad says.
"Just water for me," Renata says. "Thanks."
I consider pretending to look for the glasses, as if I haven't been snooping around the kitchen earlier, but decide not to get that devious. After pouring drinks, I set the table with the silverware and plates. Renata directs me to the drawer of cloth napkins, which apparently get used at every meal. She really is that classy. I pick a colorful set that look like they were handwoven in Guatemala and place them on the table.
Dad is waiting for the toaster to pop and watching Renata with a pathetic schmoopie face. I can almost see cartoon hearts spiraling out of his eyes. It's astonishing that he's all in like this, considering they reconnected less than a year ago. Despite his friends' attempts to set him up on dates, he hasn't had many relationships since Mom left. The few that he had never became serious, at least on his part.
"You go ahead and start, Andie." Renata deposits an omelet on the plate in front of me. "I have to do one at a time, and if you wait for us, yours will get cold."
"Thank you.” My mouth waters at the smell of my food.
"I hope you like it," she says. "Fresh eggs and goat cheese, and veggies from the garden."
The omelet is buttery, savory and moist, without a doubt the best I've eaten in my life. Dad's omelet is ready a couple of minutes later, and he joins me at the table. By the time Renata brings her breakfast to the table, I'm taking my last bite. She sits down and spreads the napkin on her lap before bowing her head and closing her eyes. It takes me a second to realize she's praying. I've never been around people who pray before meals, and suddenly I feel like I've spent my whole life being ungrateful. Even if I don't believe in God, it would be nice to say a little thanks to the universe for being given what many people lack.
"I want to show you around the farm after we eat," Dad says, wiping off his mouth. "I'm going to shower, and then I'll give you a tour. Leave the dishes for us to do, Renata."
"Thanks," she says. "I do need to go to the bank today."
He gets up from the table and bends to give her a kiss on the cheek before taking his plate to the sink.
After he leaves the room, Renata says, "Your dad spoils me. He does almost all of the cleaning up."
"That sounds fair to me. He should clean up if you cook."
Renata smiles. "To your generation, it sounds fair. To mine, it's a revelation."
"I'll be the one doing dishes if I get married. I can't cook to save my life."
Renata's expression turns serious. "I feel bad about what happened at dinner last night. I have no idea why Seth was being so salty. Sometimes I think he spends too much time alone, working on that cabin. He forgets his social graces."
"It's fine," I say with a smile, wondering if Seth ever cared about social graces to begin with. "No harm done."
