"How do you crack an egg?" I said back, as if he were the stupidest person on the planet. Yesterday I showed him how to make scrambled eggs (a little water, whisk well, super hot pan, have your plate ready, take them out before they are fully cooked) and he wanted to make them for himself today.
"Yeah, I mean, what do you do?" he held the egg in his hand awkwardly.
If you cook with kids, the thing you have them do after they have mastered dumping and stirring is crack the eggs. B did a lot of cooking with me, graduated to knives and food processors and the stovetop, but never had occasion to crack an egg because I never taught him to cook something he wasn't going to eat.
I showed him with one egg: flat surface, split it open, save the shell to feed back to the chickens. He took the other one and hit it against the counter. I said, "It has to crack more." He hit it again, then turned it so the crack faced up and started to dig his index fingers into the crack. "Wait, no, put your thumbs in and turn it over so it falls into the bowl," I said. He was doing it so wrong, it was comical. It was like he was a feral child, with no idea how society worked, trying to figure out what a flush toilet was for.
Both B and R have been asking me how to make an over-easy egg. "You need to ask Grandpa to teach you," I tell them both. The other night when I was frying eggs R asked again, "Can I do the part where you cut the whites?" "No," I said. "If you want to learn to make eggs, you need to talk to Grandpa."