I hop off the bus after my long day at Mamaroneck Avenue Elementary, sporting my red Chucks and high pink socks. My purple initialed Land’s End backpack nearly scrapes the ground and smacks me in the back of my calves as I walk.  My straps are too loose, but I don’t care. 

Why did Mrs. H have to call on me and ask me those dumb questions? Of course I didn’t know the answers… fractions are hard! Who can understand common denominators anyway? This is supposed to be 3rd grade math? More like 5th grade math! And Mikey didn’t have to laugh at me that hard when I fell in gym.  Boys are the worst!

It’s been a tough day, and my head hangs low as I make the 60 step walk from the bus stop to my front door.

I walk up the path leading to my house, which is covered in pretty pink petals that have fallen from the blooming weeping willow tree out front, and push open my door. I drop my low-slung backpack on the wooden bench with a thud.


She drops a plate in front of me and I smile with relief.

Who cares about all those fraction homework sheets waiting for me in my backpack? Who cares about Mikey? I’m still a better kickball player, anyways.

Fast forward, present day, and I’m still making that same plate.  And maybe this time without the scuffed red Chucks and the oh-so-stylish purple Land’s End.

Basically, it’s potatoes and eggs.  I thought this was something everyone ate as a kid. Potatoes, eggs… together? Why not.  But everyone in my apartment always seems to be a little confused when they see me eating this, so apparently it’s an Italian thing? I get a lot of “Wait, you’re going to put the eggs on top of those potatoes you’re frying?”

I really have no idea. I don’t question it.

I made this last week, but used a sweet potato instead.  I chopped up some chives from my collection of withering, potted herbs soaking up the clean (yeah, okay) NYC air on my windowsill.  First I fried the potatoes in a little oil, and scrambled three eggs and poured them over the taters (side note: my Dad calls me Tator, or some variation of that… Tator, Tator Tot, Tate, Potato. Different story, different post).

I don’t make this often, but when I do, it’s usually a result of a stressful day full of flabbergasting excel charts, and subway bullying.

It never fails… delicious and simple.  I’d call that a win-win.  Or perhaps, I should call it a 4/4.

Take that, fractions.