Just once, I’d like to wake up to the smell of family making breakfast for me. Instead, they all wait hungry for me to arise, and present a list of items from my repertoire they want me to make for them. It’s nice to be needed, but sheesh. You’re all grown adults. You have two hands. Supposedly you are capable of reading a cookbooks, or at least have gained something by osmosis these past 20 years. My name isn’t Mel.