Stepping out of Osiah’s shower I can smell a delicious breakfast wafting up the stairs and making its way right to my nostrils. I can smell bacon, eggs, sausage and even French toast and I instantly start to salivate. I quickly dry myself off and towel dry my hair as best I can before dressing in my clothes from yesterday and making my way downstairs.
“That smells fantastic,” I praise, taking a seat at the kitchen bench, “I really am surprised you’re such a terrific cook.”
“When you live this long, if you don’t know how to cook then there’s something very wrong with you.”
I chuckle and nod in agreement. Not knowing how to do something as fundamental as feeding yourself is just lazy, and there’s really no excuse for it. Well… unless, of course, you have a disability of some kind, in whic
