What's for Breakfast?
I can eat the same thing for breakfast for a month and not complain. Do not give me the same dish for lunch two days in a row. I don't know why, but breakfast is a meal that I must eat but could care less about. The only thing I require of it is that it be quickly made and be accompanied by coffee.
From time to time, though, a whimsy comes upon me of preparing something more complicated. I have gone through several breakfast routines. My current routine is Greek yoghurt with mixed nuts and sometimes blueberries. Before that there have been varying routines. There are stretches of time when I eat cereal and milk. That can quickly end as I settle for the faster doughnut. There's a mouldering box of cereal on top of my refrigerator as a testament to that lightning switch in routine. The fast doughnut is sometimes replaced by a warm buttered croissant in the French fashion, as I learned to love two years ago in France. Though, the heavier Spanish croissants tend to have a sugary glaze that the French puffs of air don't have and are less appetizing. Then, there was about a week when I was bitten by the bacon and egg craze. I would get out the frying pan and cook my breakfast. My daughter was home at the time, and, true European that she is, would frown and shudder at my choice of morning meal.
I have also had the pancake craze on Sunday mornings. I would buy blueberries on Saturday and the next morning I'd get out my recipe book and mix up the batter. Every Sunday I did that I swore I would find a better and easier way. This past Saturday I saw a ready-mix looking at me from its supermarket shelf on my weekly shopping safari. It was a powder of everything necessary; all I had to do was add milk. I bought it, and this morning I took it out and changed my routine.
All I had to do was shake the powder loose in the container, and add milk up to the line on the side. Okay, easy. Steps one and two done, I had to shake it until all the powder was dissolved in the milk. Shake, shake, shake. I look at the container and notice that there's still a mass of powder on the bottom. Shake some more. Shake, shake, shake. I bang the plastic container against the countertop to shake it loose. The container bends and starts to look like someone hates it. Shake, shake, shake. This is taking longer than if I were to mix everything in a bowl. Shake, shake, bang, shake. There's still a tiny bit stuck on the bottom, but I'm finished shaking.
I turn on the fire and warm up the pan with a trickle of oil on the bottom. I give a final shake and pour the batter. Chunk, kerplunk, swoosh. A large ball of undissolved powder falls into the pan, followed by some of the batter. Sigh. I let it set a little to empty it out more easily into the trash. The pan goes back on the fire and I shake the container like an insane maraca. I pour in some more batter. This time it seems to go well. I must have a generous hand when I pour, though, because I don't get the twelve pancakes it says on the label, even counting the batter I threw out.
I pour enough maple syrup to properly drown the pancakes till they cry for help. I slice some late strawberries over them and settle down to breakfast. I look at the clock. Hmmm. It's ten fifteen. If I had stuck to my Greek yoghurt, I would have finished breakfast by nine thirty. The pancake shortcut has almost turned into brunch. But the syrupy morsels are worth it.
From time to time, though, a whimsy comes upon me of preparing something more complicated. I have gone through several breakfast routines. My current routine is Greek yoghurt with mixed nuts and sometimes blueberries. Before that there have been varying routines. There are stretches of time when I eat cereal and milk. That can quickly end as I settle for the faster doughnut. There's a mouldering box of cereal on top of my refrigerator as a testament to that lightning switch in routine. The fast doughnut is sometimes replaced by a warm buttered croissant in the French fashion, as I learned to love two years ago in France. Though, the heavier Spanish croissants tend to have a sugary glaze that the French puffs of air don't have and are less appetizing. Then, there was about a week when I was bitten by the bacon and egg craze. I would get out the frying pan and cook my breakfast. My daughter was home at the time, and, true European that she is, would frown and shudder at my choice of morning meal.
I have also had the pancake craze on Sunday mornings. I would buy blueberries on Saturday and the next morning I'd get out my recipe book and mix up the batter. Every Sunday I did that I swore I would find a better and easier way. This past Saturday I saw a ready-mix looking at me from its supermarket shelf on my weekly shopping safari. It was a powder of everything necessary; all I had to do was add milk. I bought it, and this morning I took it out and changed my routine.
All I had to do was shake the powder loose in the container, and add milk up to the line on the side. Okay, easy. Steps one and two done, I had to shake it until all the powder was dissolved in the milk. Shake, shake, shake. I look at the container and notice that there's still a mass of powder on the bottom. Shake some more. Shake, shake, shake. I bang the plastic container against the countertop to shake it loose. The container bends and starts to look like someone hates it. Shake, shake, shake. This is taking longer than if I were to mix everything in a bowl. Shake, shake, bang, shake. There's still a tiny bit stuck on the bottom, but I'm finished shaking.
I turn on the fire and warm up the pan with a trickle of oil on the bottom. I give a final shake and pour the batter. Chunk, kerplunk, swoosh. A large ball of undissolved powder falls into the pan, followed by some of the batter. Sigh. I let it set a little to empty it out more easily into the trash. The pan goes back on the fire and I shake the container like an insane maraca. I pour in some more batter. This time it seems to go well. I must have a generous hand when I pour, though, because I don't get the twelve pancakes it says on the label, even counting the batter I threw out.
I pour enough maple syrup to properly drown the pancakes till they cry for help. I slice some late strawberries over them and settle down to breakfast. I look at the clock. Hmmm. It's ten fifteen. If I had stuck to my Greek yoghurt, I would have finished breakfast by nine thirty. The pancake shortcut has almost turned into brunch. But the syrupy morsels are worth it.
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