Sunday Morning Breakfast

Amidst the hurly-burly and hubble-bubble of the modern American Lebensstil, there is nothing quite so satisfying, so quenching to the existential stomach, as Sunday breakfast.

  This was my homey thought as I peeled back the white butcher paper from a flitch of bacon and began laying them, like railroad ties, in my frying pan this morning.

The menu was simple and classic: bacon and eggs, with toast slathered in apple butter. Not for this true blue patriot the intricate and decadent repasts of the hoity-toity elite, such as Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce, or eggs Benedict. No, I hankered for nothing more than the homespun basics that have given Americans pleasure, sustenance, and towering blood pressure for generations past.

Carefully monitoring the sputtering bacon slices, I noticed for the first time that my stove top was speckled with grease, giving it a leprous appearance.

"I'll have to get out the holystone and swab things down presently" I muttered to myself, in a brilliant imitation of W.C. Fields giving one of his inimitable asides. It is a thousand pities that there was no one else there to enjoy my bon mot, as my apartment walls never respond to the japes and jests I often throw out at random.

Once the bacon had attained its proper condition of carbonized brittleness, I cracked two eggs into the fry pan, using the one-handed method often demonstrated by French chefs in the movies. Casually lifting out the larger pieces of egg shell and flipping them into the sink, I sprinkled the eggs with Lawry's Seasoning Salt and put the lid on, simultaneously turning off the heat (or so I thought--actually I turned the dial all the way up to High).

I then set the bread in the toaster, poured myself a glass of milk, and was about to go shave when the loud crackle of incendiary eggs, accompanied by a cloud of black greasy smoke, led me back to my fry pan, where my breakfast lay in ruins. I removed the pan from the stove with a deft hand and a few mawkish curses, and made one of those quick executive decisions for which I am known from Baraboo to Bimini -- I would sprinkle a few drops of red wine vinegar over the mess to redeem it from the dustbin.

My thought, based on sound culinary principles, was that the vinegar would deglaze things and allow me to lift my repast out of the fry pan as easy as kiss my hand.

Alas, the crisped remains of my breakfast remained glued steadfastly to the pan until I chiseled them out with a wooden spoon and a large spatula.

By now the toast had popped up and turned as cold and dry as a bill collector's heart.

Still and all, I determined to eat my simple breakfast on a TV tray as I listened to something intellectual and soothing on Public Radio. Ever health-conscious, I added a few cherry tomatoes to my plate by way of giving it some freshness and tang.
But the radio station gave out nothing but some soporific nonsense about two tin horns named, I think Clefton and Schlump, running for some insignificant public office -- so I turned it off.

And then my TV tray collapsed on me, sending the cherry tomatoes rolling around my apartment like marbles. I stepped on two of them in my bare feet before getting them back on my plate.

So I had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, instead. Still a good, solid American meal in my humble estimation.

And then I did go and shave -- thinking all the while how easily I might dig the blade in a bit deeper across my throat and end the whole farce once and for all.

But I decided to keep soldiering on instead. After all, there was that grilled cheese sandwich I was planning for my Sunday dinner . . .