I’m sitting here, in the dim of the morning, sipping my coffee. The Mrs asks what I want for breakfast. I shrug my shoulders, noticing a twinge in my neck, getting older sucks, and tell her she can make whatever she wants. “We have some bacon to use up, so how ’bout eggs, bacon and hash browns?” I say that would be fine, while rubbing my neck.
Now lately, this little tableau of Americana, would mean various frozen, pre-processed packages of this and that would be brought out, unpackaged, stuffed in the microwave and wait for the beep.
Us, being a throw back in time, apparently, prefer a more Rockwell like existence. The next conversation centered around what kind of hash brows. “What type of hash browns would you like? Hand cut or shredded in the food processor (yes we do have electricity)?” I told her that I would like whatever she would like. She shook her head and said “what if I don’t know what I like?” I upped the ante with “how am I supposed to know what I like, if you don’t know what you like??” These breakfast negotiations can be quite dicey at times. While she loves to cook, cleaning up becomes a chore, so I try to pilot a course, avoiding the rocks and shoals of many dishes and arrive in the safe harbor of good food. Good intentions will sink you, if you’re not careful.
We decide on hand cut. Ok, on to the bacon. We bought a pig from one of our buddies at work. A 300 pound pig works out to just under 200 pound of meat. And 2 trips to the butcher, because he conveniently didn’t mark any of the packages and forgot to load the last box of our meat. Red faces and tight lips by them, when we came back for the last box. And that wasn’t from embarrassment. Anyway, we make our own bacon. Easy to do and the taste is not anything like what you get at the store. The Mrs doles out the bacon, and despite what they tell you, size does matter. Your thick sliced bacon from the store will have performance issues when it sees our home made bacon. Best just leave that crap in the store and make your own.
On to the toast. As I have said before, toast is important. Trust me on this. And that saying, “best thing since sliced bread.” I quite often say that about my wife. What does it mean? Well kids, back in the day, when bread was baked at home, you had to slice it yourself. And if you had a large, hungry family, that became a time sucking chore. Every day, for every meal. Along with all the other chores you had. You get picture. The Mrs makes at least one loaf of bread a week. Also thick sliced, otherwise it won’t hold up to the heavy load of pear butter applied to it.
What is pear butter? You people need to get out into the country more. When we bought this place, it had a huge, old fashioned hard pear tree in the front pasture. It constantly gives us a bumper crop around the end of August. We let them ripen in our second fridge, until squeezably soft, like Charmin. We then grind them up, and the Mrs cooks it down with a heaping load of cinnamon. End result is pear butter, and that’s what you put on your toast. A side note, as I speak, the last of the pear butter is being applied to my toast. The last of the pear butter. You see, we are moving back home to the frozen north, where they don’t grow pears. And since we are moving in August, well, the next owners will have to harvest the pears. We done ate ours up and that’s all she wrote.
The food finally hits the table and you think you are home free. This is where the whole thing can become undone. Mistakes were made in the past and many sad faces resulted from it. You see, not that I am tightly wound, or anything, but I require a rather precise placement of condiments. We are diverging from Rockwell just a bit, so work with me here. Because we have lived in the Southwest, breakfast has a south of the border option to it. Namely salsa, or if you prefer, Sriracha, which isn’t really from the Southwest, but it’s dark in here and nobody will notice. These two palate stiffeners are to the right side of my plate. Next up, the pear butter. Since the Mrs tends to put home made stuff into the same looking jelly jars, pear butter and home made ketchup could easily be switched out if you, say, wanted to make a point of contention or so. Not that it’s ever happened, but in the past, mistakes have been made. My point is, in the dim of the morning, like today, I grabbed what I thought was pear butter, cause that’s what supposed to be there and just about spooned a load of ketchup onto my toast. A disaster for me, but my wife would be happy, cause she eats ketchup on anything. After my hands stopped shaking, I was able to apply the last of the pear butter to my toast.
You might be thinking that this all sounds like too much work. A Sonic drink and breakfast burrito is much easier. To each his own, I say. This little dance at breakfast just starts the day out right and makes life worth living.