When I was very young, maybe three or four, my father and a close friend of his had a weekly tradition on Sunday mornings. It was a simple ritual of coffee and chit chat, and halfway through my father would make omelets for them to enjoy over their conversation. I remember wanting nothing more than to just sit at the table with them and participate. Even though I didn’t understand what they were talking about and didn’t have anything to share, I still wanted to take part. If I was quiet and not too fidgety, my father would let me stay, and when it was time for the omelets, he would make one for me too. The omelets, like the meetings, were simple, but they were exquisite.