I’m sure ours wasn’t the only household in which Dad made fried eggs for breakfast one day on the weekend. In our house, this was usually Sunday before church. I’d like to say that my version here looks like my dad’s, but his was more of the rubbery-yolk-wth-the-crispy-white- fried-to-death-in-bacon version, which although I love my dad, I just couldn’t bring myself to replicate. However, I do pay tribute to my dad with a bit of brown on the bottom of my eggs. However, not so much that you need a steak knife to slice them apart.
2016, kiln-fired and cold worked glass, found tray and implements