By It was one hundred degrees on Wednesday. I know this because my phone told me, and because I walked outside and my glasses fogged and my lungs said no and the parking lot at the dental office shimmered like a mirage in a movie about people who are lost in deserts and regret their choices. One hundred degrees. In Nashville. At 8:30 in the morning. By noon it was a hundred and three, and by three o'clock the city had reached the temperature at which asphalt becomes a personal enemy and every Nashvillian with a porch is sitting on it drinking sweet tea and saying, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity," which is a lie we tell ourselves because it is absolutely the heat AND the humidity, both, together, conspiring.
The kids did not leave the apartment from Wednesday through Friday except under extreme duress. Extreme duress being: Lorraine called on Thursday and said, "Bring them over, I made popsicles." Lorraine made popsicles. Homemade popsicles, the kind she used to make us when we were little — Kool-Aid poured into Dixie cups with plastic spoons stuck in them, frozen overnight. That's it. That's the recipe. It's not a recipe. It's Kool-Aid and gravity and patience and freezing. But when Lorraine handed Elijah a red Kool-Aid popsicle in a Dixie cup on her apartment patio in hundred-degree heat, he looked at her like she had invented joy. He said, "Nana, this is the best thing I ever ate." She said, "It's ten cents' worth of Kool-Aid, baby." He said, "It's the BEST." He's not wrong. The best things usually are ten cents' worth of something made by someone who loves you.
Chloe has been reading. Just — reading. All week. She found a stack of books at the library and she's plowing through them the way I plow through a pot of coffee on a Monday morning: desperately, completely, with no intention of stopping. She's reading on the couch, on her bed, on the floor in front of the fan. I asked her what she was reading and she held up a book and said, "It's about a girl who solves murders," and I said, "Is it good?" and she said, "I've read three of them since Tuesday," which is not an answer but is absolutely an answer. My daughter is a reader. I don't know where she got it — not from me, I read the back of cereal boxes and recipe cards and that's about it — but she reads like breathing and I am so proud of that I could burst.
Jayden has been restless. The pool closed twice this week for lightning threats, and when the pool is closed and it's a hundred degrees and you're eleven and your body is made of energy that has nowhere to go, you become — difficult. Not bad. Not mean. Just difficult. He picked a fight with Chloe on Tuesday over the TV remote that escalated to yelling and I had to stand in the hallway and deploy the Mom Voice, which is a weapon I use sparingly because it works best when rare. Wednesday he was fine. Thursday he was sullen. Friday he asked if he could go to DeMarco's and I said yes because the apartment needed a break from his energy and he needed a break from the apartment and sometimes the best parenting is opening the door.
I worry about him. I always worry about him, but lately the worry has a different texture. He starts middle school in five weeks. Sixth grade. New school, new kids, new hallways. He's not Chloe — Chloe walked into high school like she owned it, because Chloe has the confidence of a girl who has always known she was smart and capable. Jayden doesn't have that. Jayden has something else — a tenderness he hides under toughness, a hurt he can't name, a father-shaped space that I can't fill no matter how much chili I make or how many times I show up. Five weeks until middle school. I'm watching. I'm praying. I'm making sure his shoes still fit.
Saturday night I made the only reasonable dinner for a hundred-degree week: BLTs. Bacon fried crispy — the oven method, on a sheet pan at 400 degrees, because standing over a skillet of popping grease in July is self-harm and I refuse. Tomatoes from Lorraine's neighbor's garden, the same garden that supplied last month's tomatoes, the garden that keeps on giving. Iceberg lettuce because I like iceberg lettuce and I don't care what the food blogs say, iceberg lettuce is crunchy and cold and perfect on a BLT and if you want to put arugula on your sandwich that is your right and your mistake. Mayo on both slices. Toasted bread. That's it.
Elijah ate the bacon and the bread and ignored the vegetables. Jayden ate two and a half sandwiches. Chloe ate hers with the lettuce and tomato and no bacon because she is "eating healthier," and I did not point out that a BLT without the B is an LT, which is just a sad salad between bread. I did not say this because she is fourteen and figuring out who she is and sometimes who you are is a girl who eats an LT and feels good about it. That's fine. That's her journey. I will eat her bacon. Someone has to.
After dinner we sat on the stoop again. The sun was going down and the heat was dropping from unbearable to merely oppressive, which in Nashville in July counts as pleasant. Chloe read her murder book. Jayden threw a tennis ball against the wall of the building, over and over, the rhythm of a boy thinking thoughts he doesn't have words for yet. Elijah sat next to me and leaned against my arm and said, "Mama, when is it gonna be fall?" I said, "A while yet, baby." He said, "Good. I like summer. I just don't like the hot part." I said, "That's the whole part." He said, "Oh." And then he leaned harder against my arm, and I let him, because he's six and he's warm and the world is hot but we're on the stoop and we're together and together is the thing I chose every single time and will keep choosing every single time, heat and all, bacon and all, LTs and all, all of it. All of it.
BLTs were the move that Saturday, but honestly, the whole week called for this same spirit — fast, no-fuss, handheld food that doesn’t require standing over a hot stove while the apartment bakes around you. Ham & Egg Pockets have become my answer to heat-wave weeks when I need something the kids will actually eat, something I can pull together before anyone starts picking fights over the remote again. Two and a half sandwiches for Jayden, a modified version for Chloe, and something small and enthusiastic for Elijah — a pocket is just a sandwich that contains itself, and some weeks that kind of tidiness is exactly what you need.
Ham & Egg Pockets
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 pita pocket halves (or 2 full pitas, halved)
- 6 large eggs
- 1/2 cup diced cooked ham
- 1/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese
- 2 tablespoons milk
- 1 tablespoon butter
- 2 green onions, thinly sliced
- Salt and black pepper to taste
- Optional: hot sauce or Dijon mustard for serving
Instructions
- Warm the pitas. Wrap the pita halves in a damp paper towel and microwave for 20–30 seconds, or warm them in a dry skillet over medium heat for about 1 minute per side. Set aside and cover loosely with a clean towel to keep warm.
- Beat the eggs. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs and milk until combined. Season with salt and a few grinds of black pepper.
- Cook the ham. Melt the butter in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add the diced ham and cook, stirring occasionally, for 2–3 minutes until lightly browned at the edges.
- Scramble the eggs. Pour the egg mixture over the ham in the skillet. Let the eggs set slightly around the edges, then gently fold and stir with a spatula, cooking until just set but still slightly glossy, about 3–4 minutes. Remove from heat — residual heat will finish them.
- Add cheese and onions. Sprinkle the shredded cheddar and sliced green onions over the egg mixture and fold gently to combine, allowing the cheese to melt from the heat of the eggs.
- Fill the pockets. Carefully open each pita half and spoon the ham and egg mixture inside, dividing evenly among the four pockets. Serve immediately with hot sauce or Dijon mustard on the side if desired.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 290 | Protein: 19g | Fat: 14g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 620mg