Confused In Translation

The four of us finally flopped into a booth, setting down our backpacks while trying not to lose our hats or trip over our hiking bootlaces. We weren’t running late, exactly, but we would only have time for a sit-down breakfast if we ordered immediately and asked for the check early.

Hasty glances at the menu. I probably ordered pancakes, my sister maybe a sandwich, and I can’t imagine my mom not getting an English muffin involved in the start of her day. Tata ordered eggs before turning back to his map of Idaho.

“And how would you like your eggs, sir?” asked the waitress, leaning in to get his attention. He looked up, confused. “Erm, I, um… almost raw?” More puzzled looks all around.

Motherly matter-of-fact damage control: “He’ll have them scrambled.”

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