You can get a omelet at a lot of places across this great late and, truly, across this beautiful marble floating in the sky. Many of them will be good, too. But sometimes you run across a chef who’s making them to the music in his head. And it is almost art, this spreading of chopped things and the mixing in of egg and cheese and seasonings.
Our guy at the Caf at Samford, he’s a friendly guy, big laughs, big smiles, carries on running conversations with a lot of the people that he sees every day. And he’s something of an artist, maybe.
Or maybe it is just a fine omelet full of fresh tomatoes. Either way.
The last class of the semester. We got in our last presentations. We discussed the final paper. They brought me cookies. I thanked them for their patience in the class. I told them I hoped they learned as much as I did and, I said, “This is my favorite part of the semester. Have a safe and happy summer. I look forward to seeing you in the fall.”
One of the students stood up and cynically said “That sounds like a prepared speech.”
I was so proud.
In my office I cleaned things up and did the last few remaining chores of the day. This stretched out longer than it had to, but this day always does. I lingered to listen to Van Morrison:
Why it is Van Morrison I am not sure. On the last day of my first semester at Samford I was parking the car when some really obscure tune of his was playing on whatever random satellite channel I was listening to at the time. It seemed appropriate for the day and I have a weakness for appropriate, yet pointless traditions.
Wednesday omelets seem like a good tradition …
