THERE YOU ARE

This morning started like any other, the dream dissolved like a TV screen going to commercial and conscious thought scrolled up my mind. The thought was, actually more of an impulse; do I go along with it or steal away, back to dream land? Shortly; serviced, dressed and committed to a new day I stood at my coffee pot weighing my options. Hungry or not, I think it’s good to eat sooner than later but what to eat! I’m a grown up, old man . . . with a credit card and car keys. I can have whatever I want. But my body takes better care of me when I take care of my body so I operate on the rule of moderation. They still have buffets, serve yourself, second’s, third’s, forth’s, even fifth’s; as many reloads as you like. If they advertise, “All You Can Eat” then by all means, you should eat all you can. That used to make perfect sense but look around. My body used to scream, “Lets go parachute from a plane or leap off a 40 ft. cliff into the river.” We did that and it was exciting but 'Exciting' grew up and ain’t what it used to be. Now my body cautions me, “Take good care of me.” and I listen. 

When I fix my own breakfast it could be leftovers but usually an egg & sausage or fruit & cereal. With special days or an irresistible urge I can dress a pancake with a thin layer of orange marmalade but that is a rare day. My dad liked his eggs hard boiled. Still warm, out from the boil through a cold water bath, he pealed two eggs, shook salt & pepper on his plate and carefully tapped the small end of the egg in the spice. Working his way to the big end, alternating bites of bacon, he set the model. Naturally I followed suit. Now I’m the Alpha Male, even if I’m the only one at the table. I sprinkle shredded cheese, cut it all up and nuke the cheese, add some Cajun seasoning and “Voilà”, there you are.

         My mother liked her eggs poached, on toast. She had a poaching tray with a lid for her skillet that accommodated 3 eggs, just right for 3 sons. We didn’t have a toaster but the stove’s broiler could handle 4 slices at a time. She had to turn them to get both sides but she had it to a science and we thought it was the latest, most-best toast system ever. With our own cow, everything tasted better with butter and we didn’t skimp on our poached eggs on toast. This morning, fitting the coffee filter into the pot I thought about her poached eggs. I don’t have a poacher but remember camping on a gravel bar, poaching eggs in a naked kettle. Slide them into boiling water, one at a time. In a few minutes, spoon out the poached egg. You can do as many eggs as space allows. You lose some of the thin, runny egg white but camping on the river bank, it just adds nuance. So I poached an egg, gravel bar style. With a pinch of cheese and a small sausage patty my body got a great start on the new day. Nostalgia, ain’t it great! 
         Dad used to cut our hair with scissors and a small set of hand shears. We sat on a board, on top of the arms of my little brother’s high chair with a tea towel pinned around the neck. Hair cutting wasn’t as carefree as breakfast. If you twitched when you shouldn’t, like a knee jerk reflex came a scathing rebuke. “God damn it,” would be followed by a command, if not a warning, not to move. As nostalgic as that memory may be, poached eggs are one thing but I don’t think I’ll sit on a board for someone with hand clippers to recreate that experience.