Scrambled, eh?

Great minds, almost on the same frequency:

As I walked into the kitchen to whip something up for supper, Robert looked up and said: "How about some scrambled eggs?"

I'd been thinking eggs, too -- but also the tomatoes and sweet pepper that Mom had grown and insisted I bring home, and a few other things I had rattling around in the fridge: some Vidalias near their dotage, some cheeses I'd grated for other meals, a little pepperoni. . . .

How about a quiche, I asked.

Robert shrugged: "Eh. It's still scrambled eggs."