It’s 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and like any well-adjusted
twentysomething, I’m eating breakfast. More specifically, I’m having
brioche french toast and cappuccino at the Little Next Door on 3rd with
my friend Gloria. After living in LA for six months, I have determined
that breakfast in the afternoon is exactly the sort of reckless
behavior Sundays demand.
Typically in New York, Sundays amounted to consumption of greasy brunch
complemented by mimosas and black coffee. Following brunch was an
inevitable headache, followed by more consumption in the form of
excessive window-shopping, followed by an indulgent nap upon what
appeared to be a laundry pile, but was in fact my bed.
Breakfast
Breakfast
Waffling
The Waffle House is sort of the unofficial flower of the Southern
Interstate exit. Driving North from the Gulf Coast on I-65 for the past
two years, I have seen the yellow signs blossoming in hamlets from
Alabama to Kentucky, and been intrigued, imagining fluffy waffles with
real syrup, folksy waitresses with coffee pots, and an enlightening
cross section of humanity. My path to Waffle Nirvana was blocked only
by my mother, who has a phobia about unclean public bathrooms which I
believe is a gene-linked trait in Jewish women of her generation.
Having been a teacher, she is able to “hold it” like a camel retains
water in the desert, but during the long trip home from Florida she
insists, not unreasonably, that we choose lunch stops at restaurants
where she can use the restrooms without sedation.
Asparagus Egg Bake for Two
Large pans filled with a billowy mixture of oven-baked eggs, bread and vegetables is always a good choice for breakfast when you need to feed a crowd of hungry sleepyheads. But what about feeding just two people who love to sleep in on a cool, cloudy, drizzly no-work-day morning? Just have a couple of ramekins of Asparagus Egg Bake in the refrigerator.
While the water is heating for the French press and bacon is sizzling in a cast-iron skillet on the stove, two ramekins filled to the top with layers of chunks of English muffins, cheese, eggs, asparagus and chives can be baking in the oven. What a way to start the day.
Several spears of fresh asparagus that had been roasted to eat with grilled steaks were in a zip-top bag in the refrigerator when I decided to put together a couple of breakfast dishes to have on hand during the long holiday weekend. In the refrigerator, I knew they would be good for a few days, if necessary.
When Breakfast Changed My Life
When I was a kid, I was pretty much a geek. At nine I started to
stutter so badly that the school put me into a class for “special”
students and my parents sent me to a psychologist. The approach
favored by the psychologist was to withhold talking until I said
something. Since I didn’t want to stutter and didn’t want to talk to
him anyway, we mostly spent 50 minutes in silence.
My father was a pragmatist which meant he figured that whatever was
was, so if I was socially awkward and stuttered, that’s who I was and
he left it at that. My mother however was an optimist. She had
proudly attended Hunter Model School in New York and felt that she was
part of the liberal intelligentsia that wouldn’t rest until the world
was cleansed of poverty, racism, sexism, and war. Reading about the
latest armed conflict in the newspaper, she would proclaim with
frustration, “Why can’t people just get along?”
Come Hungry, Leave Happy
Before there was IHOP, there was Gwynn’s.
When I was a kid in suburban Teaneck, New Jersey, it was always a treat to go for Sunday brunch with my family at Gwynn’s on Teaneck Road. Gwynn’s seemed swanky and grown-up to me. Outside, it was painted white brick, and inside it was cool and darkish, with comfy booths. My mother would order her coffee, and the cream came in tiny, glass pitchers with little round cardboard pull-tabs on top. She only used a drop and then gave me the supreme pleasure of letting me drink the rest of the cream from its miniature jar. Sometimes, if she had a second cup, I got another taste of the thick, heavenly liquid that would contribute to the need for Lipitor years later. Compared to my very picky little sister, who ate only cream cheese and jelly, I was “a good eater” with a passion for pancakes, waffles and French toast.
Then, in the mid 60’s, across town on Cedar Lane, a new place opened up, part of a chain that seemed to be popping up all over America: the International House of Pancakes. People were talking about it, and my cousins three towns away had already been to another one and were jazzed. It didn’t have Gwynn’s sophistication or my beloved mini-pots of cream, but on our first visit, I discovered silver dollar pancakes – a plateful of glorious, child-sized, golden ducats. I was hooked! Soon thereafter, chocolate chip pancakes appeared on the menu, and I became an under-age chocoholic.
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