chunks of flommus
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triangles

We all have that moment, as a child, when you take your first step towards becoming a self functioning adult. Each milestone is a pebble washing up onto your shore. The pebbles mark the height of tide, before the water pulls back.

There are certain actions, the larger stones, we reflect on – first words, steps, tooth. Here is mine, that as an adult, I hold a tiny joy …

It was the weekend. A lazy morning planned with a lazy afternoon in the sun playing and reading. My father was making french toast for my brother and I. The wickered back barstool creaked as I turned the seat to climb and sit with anticipation. I sat with my feet tucked beneath me so I could tower over the kitchen’s counter enough to eat.

The other stool squeaked and my brother (six years my elder) came lumbering out like a quiet giant. He sat beside me as our father worked, the sizzling of the yellowed pan igniting the air with the smell of butter, bread, and egg.

The familar white and gold flecked formica countertop was home. When my father wasn’t looking, I would run my finger along the edge of a ‘patched’ hole in the countertop. Always wondering what happened, pushing against the pattern matched paper right where the center of the counter’s dent existed.

The plates,teenage mutant ninja turtles themed, were quickly filled with the french toast.

I waited for my dad to finish so he could cut my food. It had to be exact. It had to be perfect squares, and only my Dad knew how to accomplish cut food perfection. But today, he only did half of my french toast. He said I had to try cutting my own. But HOW? It would never been so perfect. It wasn’t possible. And that meant the food wouldn’t be good anymore. I would starve. Not cutting my toast was encouraging starvation.

My brother, with a toothy grin, was the one to say ‘Do you want dad there to cut your food when you’re fifteen?’

My adult memory, foggy and flagged with over assumptions, wants to say I had a witty retort. I recall being offended and panicked. I vaguely remember saying something like he could sit behind us and whoever I was with should be OK with that because he’s MY dad and if I want him there, he will be there.

But in reality, I was probably shy and stubborn, and accused my brother of being mean. My dad said he would cut the rest of my food once he finished his.

Wanting to prove my brother (and myself) wrong, I picked up both fork and knife. And then I took my fork and knife and I cut my own french toast. It was imperfect and it was too hard to hold a knife and fork so I cut the toast in awkward triangles with my fork.
And I probably cried because I was afraid I was doing it so wrong. But I kept cutting. And I ate all my breakfast.

And to this day, I cannot cut my french toast as good as my Dad. I use my fork and cut imperfect triangles. But they are mine.

—jes