Lola’s Dad’s Omelets

"I think people express who they are through food, so my dad’s omelets taste like HIS omelets. I could be on the other side of the world and if somehow his omelets were served to me, I’d know!"

This is the third and final installment of our Inheritance Stories Collective Cookbook, Volume 1, where friends and I practiced oral history together. Stay tuned for more information on the workshop I’ll be hosting in April with Oregon Humanities where I’ll teach everyone the framework we built and invite people to practice with one another.

Story by Lola Milholland, interview by Nancy Wong, recorded by Stef Choi
Illustration by Stef Choi

My name is Lola, and I was born in Portland, Oregon in 1985. I live in NE Portland off of MLK. I love talking and writing with my friends, basketball, walking around my neighborhood real fast, and watching strange movies. I’m a food business owner, a goofball; I guess I’m like a little truck—“GO GO!” 

I’m going to describe how my dad makes an omelet. I think people express themselves through food, so my dad’s omelets taste like his omelets. I could be on the other side of the world and if somehow his omelets were served to me, I’d know! 

My dad is in his mid-70s, born with the fear of the atomic bomb, always goofy and silly but deeply intellectual and deeply political, loves books more than anyone in my entire life and has a memory for them and the people that write them. He’s generous yet has ended up as an older person without enough money to make a secure life. I was raised with a mom as breadwinner and a dad as caretaker. My dad was amazing. He would cook me a hot breakfast every day of my childhood—a cheesy egg omelet, eggs sunny side up, sometimes French toast! My dad was born in Colorado and grew up in southern Oregon. His family didn’t have a lot of money so his food memories were pinto beans and lots of venison. As he gets older his cooking gets more Americana. He makes a lot of split pea soup, biscuits and gravy, potato hash, etc.

As a kid he made this omelet often. Now I go to his apartment for breakfast every week or two, and often he’s going to make me an omelet.  It could be the most delicious omelet you’ve ever had BY FAR, perfect nostalgia, or it could be the weirdest. It could really go either way depending on what he has—and both taste distinctly of his cooking. It makes sense to me that it’s something he’s always, always made. It’s food for someone without very much money that’s also decadent and filling. 

What does it taste like? The flavor of butter is prominent. No restraint on butter. Extreme consistency on his milk pour so the texture is always the same. He likes a lot of cheese. Not very salty and leaves a little grease on the tongue. You’d think it would be bland but it isn’t—a David Milholland mystery.  It’s like going back in time, like I’m in a diner that doesn’t exist anymore.

When I miss my dad in the future when he’s gone, I’m going to make it. It tastes of my father for me. I’m going to make split pea soup and this omelet when he’s gone. It reminds me that he is taking care of me. Sometimes now it can feel like I’m taking care of him, but that’s not wholly true. 

Everything about him is so particular. His is a two-egg omelet. He always cooks it in a large black cast iron pan that barely has a lip on it.  He keeps the temperature really low and it slowly sets. It takes forever. It seems like it would be impossible to fold in half—it would be too delicate because the egg layer is thin. Lately he’s trying to teach me how long it cooks. It doesn’t brown by the way. It’s not dry. I’ll try to flip it and I’ll rip the egg. “More time! Longer!” he’ll say. When he flips it, he never breaks it. Then you have this giant skinny omelet on a plate, big like a Cheshire cat grin. We each get our own omelet.

The best one is yummy sharp cheddar and every bite you get is buttery and the egg is so tender. You don’t need to eat it with anything.  Simple like the way a grilled cheese or quesadilla is simple. The worst version—he gets overeager about getting more things in the omelet, doesn’t have milk and has to use an alternative milk like vanilla almond milk, doesn’t tell me but I can tell but don’t want to say anything and he’s adding all these crazy ingredients: avocado, little pimento stuffed olives, pink shrimp, cilantro sauce, and cut up canned chanterelles. He doesn’t use too much of anything, but every bite was UGH!  

Every part is nostalgic for me. The little wooden table covered in coasters, a little pile of papers he’s set aside for me, his latest experimental hot chocolate coffee drink, toast with jam, several of his jams, and he makes me guess the ingredients. We’ll talk about our lives, and every once in a while, we’ll have a serious conversation. But usually I’ll talk about what I’m doing that day and he’ll describe the plot of an entire book to me and the life story of the author. We have time because the omelet takes so long to cook! 

I know how to make it, I think. You heat up your little cast-iron pan, the size of a burrito tortilla, on medium-low heat. Take half a tablespoon of butter on a tiny paring knife, push it around on the skillet. You can see it covering the whole thing. The butter doesn’t brown. You have a funny ceramic bowl with bright tropical colors. He puts the two eggs in there, forgets salt and pepper and adds a lot of milk, more than a tablespoon per egg, beats it with a fork. Usually when you pour the egg onto the cast iron it spreads evenly. All the egg sort of covers the surface. The cheese is grated on the side. You let the egg set a little. Then put the cheese on top. It cooks so slowly. He usually uses more than one kind of cheese, often cheddar or pepper jack. Then we just wait and sit and talk, drink the funny hot chocolate together. You almost forget about it because it’s cooking so slowly. You return and take a big rubber spatula and go around the omelet to make sure it’s not going to stick. There’s a little solidity to the egg and that’s when you take the spatula and flip it over and it’s done. Then slide it onto the plate. Omelets are still delicious when you fuck up the flip, which is a relief since I still cannot do it well!

I love the omelet when it’s good but it’s obviously not about the omelet. But it also is.