On a recent Sunday, I stood in the kitchen with my brother Daniel, watching as he cracked the fifth and final egg into a bowl — the blue bowl, his favorite for making scrambled eggs. He reached for the fork to whisk them, humming, clicking his tongue and smiling widely. At 49 years old, Daniel has enjoyed eggs for a while — ever since our time on a Wisconsin farm as kids, when we made frequent visits to our next-door neighbors, “Grandma” Jeanette and “Grandpa” Chester, dairy farmers who sent us home with a fresh dozen every week.

Our parents learned of my brother’s autism when he was 3 years old, and as he grew, our family watched Daniel become who he is: someone who adores the beach and the Beatles, thrives on being on-the-go, and, like the rest of his family, loves food.

Daniel poured

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