I think everyone should sit down and write stories about their parents, you can't help but appreciate them more when you put things into words.  My Dad is a kind, generous and thoughtful person.  He was patient beyond reproach with a young know-it-all who wanted to work in television.  It should also be noted he was equally patient with my brother who was also a young know-it-all who just wanted to run businesses.  We both grew up with my Dad when our parents divorced in the difficult teen years, and this not-from-central-casting parent shepherded us through with flying colors.  He is something like a Norwegian Zen master guiding us by letting us find ourselves with only gentle oversight.  He knew exactly what to say when I struggled my freshman year at college to get me on track and I can't remember his ever raising his voice no matter what went wrong.  I could go on and on about my Dad since I am so proud of him, but I need to show you what he is most famous for:

My Dad makes the best eggs, he just does.  No matter what variety you prefer, he can prepare them.  In fact, I knew I wanted to write a blog about it and wanted to take a picture of his creations during my visit.  However, I generally was too busy inhaling them to bother to pull out the camera and take a snap shot.

I like my eggs over easy, and let me tell you it is not the easiest thing in the world to accomplish without either breaking the yoke or over or under-cooking the egg.  If you examine the picture above (where I stopped half way through eating) the egg is perfectly prepared.  He does this without fail and with seemingly little strain.  Others have tried to step into the kitchen when he is around, but almost every family member will wait for my Dad to cook for them before accepting product from an alternative sous-chef.  He was lovingly coined by my nephew Ben as "the egg man" when he was just old enough to put words together, a moniker which has stuck.

This particular morning the offerings also included a cup of coffee, and wild chokecherry jelly which is a regional treat.  When I was a kid my friend Glen Overbee had a big chokecherry tree in his back yard.  They produce these smaller than dime sized fruits better for smashing into the pavement to make stains than for general consumption (some literature refers to them as second-rate fruit) .  However quite a few of the families in the area would make jellies or jams out of them and their balance of bitter and sweet tones certainly went well with a light smear over toast.  Personally, I love them.  It had been probably a decade since I had any, and it was as good as I remember.

I ate on the deck on a brilliant Friday morning just before I prepared my kids for the three hour drive back to Fargo to visit my sister and her kids (all in high school, all worshiped by my kids...they see them once a year but will talk about them until they see them again).  Time seemed to be going by too quickly at this point, my flight back to California was due to leave in just little over 24 hours.  I was trying to drink the moments in at this point.  I should have been sipping the coffee offered reflectively, but I was slamming a sugar-free Rockstar I bought at the Cenex gas station the prior morning.  I had been off-schedule much of my trip, the two hour time difference and the fact I work nights on the West Coast made each day long on both ends.  I found myself watching a documentary on Greek Civilizations the prior night until 2am local time (12am in my head), I knew snapping back to life in CA would be easier if I stayed somewhat close to my normal cycle.

In the other room my step-mom was applying purple nail polish to Campbell's fingers.  After 6 weeks in Minnesota the kids had taken to all things local, and lets just say that purple nail polish is just the tip of the iceberg.  Ethan was only wearing Vikings shirts at this point and only switched things up when instructed that those shirts needed laundering occasionally.

Looking at the clock the time to leave came on us faster than we hoped.  My niece and nephews would be home from school in a few hours and we had to beat them back.  The lives of teenagers don't have a lot of time built in for vacation visits especially since school had already started.  So, we all scrambled for our cameras to take a few final pictures to remember the moments by.  My step-mom, Sharon, was staying behind in St. Cloud to prepare for my brother's arrival in a few days.  Saying our goodbyes it was on to the final and only day I would spend in my hometown of Fargo.