One morning I'm making an omelet for Hockey Boy and it isn't turning out the way I want. So I tell him, "One day I'll make you the perfect omelet."
He asks what the perfect omelet would look like and I describe this symmetrical, evenly brown, moist and bubbling omelet I'd consider perfect. He considers and eats his somewhat mangled omelet saying it tastes just fine.
Tuesday morning, the spouse wakes me up telling me that sometime in the middle of the night, Hockey Boy cooked a "drop dead gorgeous omelet."
I've heard of things called "drop dead gorgeous" but never an omelet. "Shoulda took a picture," I mumble.
"He did," I'm told. And there you have it. A drop dead gorgeous omelet.
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