They say you always remember your first. And were we talking about a
kiss, I remember sitting on a recessed bench filled with orange life
jackets on the second level of the Boblo Island ferry leaning towards
my sixth grade “girlfriend” Monica. I remember the stench of rotting
sea life from the Detroit River and the paprika scent of Better Made
BBQ potato chips mingling with the floral waft of Giorgio perfume from
her neck (though I suspect it was the Parfums de Coeur Designer
Imposters knock-off—after all what 12-year-old can afford the real
thing?) as we hesitantly merged our lips. Were we talking about sex, I
remember that too, but kissing and telling is one thing, getting laid
and doing so is quite another.
What I’m really talking about here is my first Eggs Benedict, the legendary English muffin raft conveying tasty castaways of salty pork and jiggly poached eggs awash in waves of silky hollandaise. And of that, I do not remember my first.
Though, I suspect it was at an all-you-can-eat buffet, one of those restaurant-larder-clearing affairs featuring an orgy of tangled snow-crab legs, a miserable checked-pant-wearing short-order cook manning a butane-fired omelet station and mountains of chartreuse-rinded unripe cantaloupe. That means my first Benedict was likely a steam-table-parched muffin topped with Canadian bacon parchment and a sulfurous over-fried egg mottled with a gloppy, broken mock-hollandaise. Thankfully I subscribe to the idea that you try everything twice, because you never know if the first example was cooked right.
My ideal breakfast is baked eggs, a nice thick ham steak and wondrously high popovers, this is the food that makes Sunday mornings so special and different from the other 6 days. Sundays are the time to slowdown and reflect on your week and your loved ones in your non formal pajamas for hours. A nice and slow day...
My mother prepared us breakfast every day of the week because she was
not about to send us off to school on an empty stomach. Yet the only
day I really remember eating breakfast was on Saturday. Not because she
cooked an elaborate spread, but because we were left to fend for
ourselves. It was the one morning my parents slept in – probably only
to about 8 or 9, but it seemed like all morning and it was a thrill to be without parental supervision in the dining room. My siblings and I weren’t what
you’d call “skilled” in the culinary arts, but we were quite capable of
pouring a bowl cereal…and that’s where the trouble started.
I could tell you I love them because they're so easy to make — who doesn't love a dish that comes together in less than half an hour? Or I could say it's because of their delicate texture and flavor — light and airy, but rich and almost nutty to the taste, it's like biting into a delicious cloud.