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"I'm sorry, I forgot to take the meat out of the freezer for dinner," said Joe.

"That's okay; we'll have scrambled eggs," I replied.

"With ham?" Joe said, with hope and longing in his voice.

"Certainly, and maybe even cheese," I chirped, full of a cook's confidence.

I spoke too soon, at least as far as the cheese was concerned. The contents of the bag of grated mild cheddar was turning a lovely shade of slate blue, while the block of sharp cheddar that we bought in Wisconsin - um, last March - smelled more like very old limburger than cheddar. Not what you want in a cheddar, sharp or not.

So the scrambled eggs lacked cheese, but ham we had. I diced up a nice thick slice, plopped a pat of butter in the skillet and tossed the ham in after it. Then I whisked up some eggs and milk, poured the eggy goodness over the ham and proceeded with the scrambling. A couple slices of toast, a pot of coffee, and we called it dinner.

Sometimes I just need breakfast for dinner. This particular breakfast was pretty hearty, so it really did count as dinner. Honest! It does!
That's what I love about being a grown-up with an empty nest. I have no guilt about having scrambled eggs, or cereal, or even microwave popcorn for dinner.

But I draw the line at ice cream. That's definitely dessert!