The young little cooking newbie thinks to herself, how lucky, and transfers them onto the bottom bun. Then she wraps the plate in tinfoil to keep it warm and washes and and dries and cuts the world’s smallest red potato into half-inch cubes, boils them and then places them on the large skillet now coated with sunflower oil. With a pair of chopsticks, she carefully adds the potato cubes, piece by piece, onto the hot pan and the potatoes sizzle, the aroma of sunflower and spices filling the kitchen air.

Ten minutes later, she moves the cubes onto a paper towel and dries all the oil off before removing the tinfoil from the plate and pouring the potato pieces all over the side of the plate. Breakfast is now ready and Sofi summons her little turtle friend to pose with the food and she snaps a photograph of the dish.

Sofi bites into the sunny side up sandwich, the yolk squirting everywhere. Today’s breakfast is just about the messiest breakfast she’s ever had and she wets a napkin and wipes the table clean before continuing. She sticks a fork into a home fry and puts it in her mouth and much to her relief it is crispy with no deep-frying necessary, the flavor of the potato brought out just right by the salt and pepper seasonings and the faint hint of sunflower.

As she stirs a home fry in ketchup, she suddenly becomes pensive.

Cooking, unlike paintings or photography or sculptures or architecture, is a form of art that just knows it's not going to last long. Each meal, an artist’s most careful work waiting to be destroyed. In a way, this is not unlike everything else around us. The only thing we can ever be certain of is that everyone—you, your mother, your dog and everyone you know—dies.

And then she sprinkles a dash of black pepper over her food.