Meeting of the Minds?

More like passed each other in the intersection.

From time to time Mr. A mentions how his mother cooked cubed potatoes in a skillet for breakfast, a delicious home-cooked memory for him.  

This morning I decided to cook some like that for him, knowing full well it wouldn't be as good as his mother's, but I tried anyway.  There was slicing and chopping; potatoes, onions, and sausage were involved, a sizzle from the drizzle of olive oil in the skillet, then a few cracks of eggs, and a nice breakfast materialized.

He was still coming to consciousness at the table, one of many aspects of opposites attracting us being I'm wide awake at first light, but he said something that resembled acute cognitive awareness, "I heard you in here playing Chopin."

I thought and said how clever that was, the symphony of kitchen clangs creating the music of his breakfast.

He said, "How it's spelled."  

I said, "C-H-O-P-I-N."

He said, "Yeah, choppin'!"

Then, "You'll never figure out how my mind works."

Probably not, but it makes me laugh, every day.