The next morning I was awakened, way too early, by Norman pounding on my bedroom door and saying, “Bonjour, mon frère. It is time for breakfast!” Then, down the hall, I heard him banging on Mom and Dad’s door and saying, “Please wake up, Maman and Papa. Breakfast is served!”
What the heck was Norman up to? I wondered, stretching my arms awake. And, weird thought, just what might a robot serve for breakfast?
Mom, Dad, and I stumbled into the dining room at the same time and saw a table filled with plates of pancakes and waffles and turkey bacon, a basket of muffins, and pitchers of orange juice and organic milk. There was enough food for twenty people.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Dad said, scratching at his chest and yawning.
“I feel fat just looking at all this food,” Mom said. Note: My mom is skinny. If she owns any fat, it’s hiding.
I had nothing to say. I think my voice box was sleeping.
A spiffed-up Norman—he was wearing a white shirt, black slacks, and a red bow tie (where the heck did he find a bow tie?)—said, “Please, family, take your seats so your new cook, waiter, butler, and maid may have the honor of serving you.”
As we sat down, Norman forked two pancakes and one waffle onto our plates, gave each of us two strips of bacon and a blueberry muffin, and filled our glasses with juice and milk.
“Bon appétit!” the robot said, folding his arms behind his back. I suddenly got it. Norman was trying to win over Mom by taking over some of her duties, like fixing breakfast. I hoped it would work, but was doubtful.
“Thanks, Norman, this looks great,” Dad said.
“Yeah, thanks a lot,” I added.
It took Mom about ten seconds, but then she said a polite “thank you,” without looking at Norman.
We passed around the bottle of maple syrup, then dove in, while Norman stood and watched us with hopeful eyes.
The pancakes were really tasty. My waffle, too. But I thought that I better not seem too excited or Mom’s feelings might be hurt, knowing she had been outcooked by a robot.
But my dumb dad . . .
“These pancakes are out of this world!” he said. “Best I’ve ever had, by a mile.” He quickly caught his goof-up. “I mean the best I’ve had since Connie made pancakes a few weeks ago.”
“Nice try,” Mom said. “But . . .” And here she actually stole a glance at Norman. “The pancakes are really great. Better than I could make.”
“Thank you, Maman and Papa,” Norman said, looking like he was about to drip tears of joy if he had that ability. “I accessed recipes from some of the finest chefs in Paris in order to prepare the best breakfast possible.”
Dad set his fork down and looked concerned. “Accessed or hacked?”
Norman excitedly bounced. It was kind of cute. “I think that I better not answer that question, Papa,” he said, shifting his eyes back and forth.
Mom, Dad, and I smiled.
Progress, I thought.