My mom has never
been a breakfasty girl, thus she almost never made me breakfast growing up. As
a result, I usually avoid the barrage of eggs and bacon that most people go
nuts over first thing in the morning for something less trite, like leftover
pizza or a sandwich. In fact, I have something of a distaste for breakfast in
general. It's like a huge carb and meat fest, and produce hardly ever makes up
a substantial portion of the meal.
I dropped Celina off
this morning and immediately got that morning hunger pang, so I started
thinking about what was in my fridge other than leftovers. I knew there were
eggs because Celina loves to make scrambled eggs for herself at any time of
day, so I keep them around. Recently, she's been making me wonder if maybe I
just never gave breakfast food enough of a chance. I tried to think of the ways
I HAVE liked eggs for breakfast in the past. There was always dad's greasy,
unholy fried-egg-topped-with-bleu-cheese-crumbles-with-side-of-pan-fried-toast-and-pear-slices-for-the-appearance-of-health
extravaganzas, but those are best prepared by someone else, when I'm far away
from the kitchen and unable to see just how much butter went into it.
Then it hit me. My
fondest, and probably first, memory of liking eggs were the luscious, buttery,
crispy scrambled egg sandwiches my mom used to make me when I was a little kid.
She did make me breakfast! SHE DID, SHE DID!
So I set out to make a scrambled egg sandwich, Sumalee-style. I started the bacon first, in the microwave, because I only have one working burner for some reason. Then I whipped up some eggs with almond milk, garlic salt from my grinder, and pepper, and threw those in a buttery pan. I took a page out of the Tony Soprano/Jay Pizza book and dotted the egg mixture with some additional dairy (but I used greek yogurt instead of sour cream or cream cheese…you know, health), then set the cooked eggs aside. I spread (real) mayo on a piece of "butter bread" (even though I don't know what the hell that means), spread more butter in the pan and threw the slice on top of it. Shredded cheese went on next, then the eggs and four slices of crispy ass bacon, topped with the other slice of bread. I let it get brown and cripsy, then flipped it with my fingers. (Imma have to make a tutorial on my spatula-free fried sandwiches.)
And you know what?
It was a damn fine breakfast sandwich. I even had a little orange juice in the
fridge to complete the stereotypical breakfast picture. I should, however, note
that I'm fairly certain I'm lactose intolerant, which makes the cheese, the greek
yogurt, and all of the butter a pretty poor choice, but you will not catch me
being concerned over this.
Moral of the story:
if your mother never made you breakfast, the one breakfast she made was
probably pretty good.
