Breakfast Evolution Part I

L'eggo my Eggo.

I didn’t have much interest in food or cooking as a kid, but I have always been a breakfast girl.  My mom used to say that I was hungry from the time my feet first hit the floor.

During the school year, I’d start and end my day with a bowl of cereal.  In the morning, I’d run downstairs, pour myself a bowl, a sensible choice of Life or Chex or Cheerios with a sliced banana, and probably sneak in a little bit of The Flintstones or an early morning rerun of I Love Lucy.  At bedtime, I’d want a little snack so I’d have a bowl of “fun” cereal, Fruity Pebbles or Lucky Charms.  Now that I think about it, I probably had that every night because I hardly ate my dinner.

Mornings Monday through Friday were all business.  Mom and Dad had to get ready for work and in Mom’s world, being late was the eighth deadly sin.  Unfortunately, being late was my specialty back then. 

“Eat your bowl of cereal, get dressed, and get your behind in the car on time.”

Weekends during the school year were a different story.  Mom slept in (one of her favorite things in life) and then spent time cooking breakfast for the three of us.  Because she had a sweet tooth the size of the greater Cleveland area, chances were she’d bake too.  Saturday and Sunday mornings we were treated to Eggo waffles, cinnamon French toast, and muffins galore.  We were in for something special when those tubes of Pillsbury orange danish or cinnamon rolls appeared in the fridge.  They must have been on sale that week, because it didn’t happen all the time.  Occasionally, we’d have oatmeal, the dried instant kind that you’d microwave.  Mom made sure to teach me the important part of making oatmeal:   top it with a lot of brown sugar.  Oh, and let’s not forget on the weekends there was breakfast sausage and bacon.  God, could my mom cook bacon.  She never just cooked a few slices, it was always the entire pound of bacon in the pan.

If Mom was in an especially good mood and had time, she’d crank out crepes (always a sweet version). She’d blend flour, eggs, sugar, milk, and butter, stand patiently at the stove, carefully pouring just the right amount of batter and swirling it in the pan. She’d make a triple batch and freeze them for a secret crepe stash.  She’d fill them with jam or cheese topped with a flurry of powdered sugar.  She used cottage cheese for the filling which grossed me out. (To this day, I use cottage cheese for one thing and one thing only, Mom’s famous taco dip.)  But I thought it was so cool that she took the time to make those crepes for herself.

Eggs were the least important part of breakfast.  Mom wasn’t a fan of eggs.  When she cooked a full breakfast, eggs were a side dish for her, not the main event.  If we did have eggs, they were always scrambled.  I don’t think I ate a fried egg until I was in my twenties and I had to have the yolk fully cooked.  Never did I understand why you’d want a poached egg.  Or a hard boiled egg for that matter.  Later on, we got a little fancy with chopped chives on our scrambles or sprinkled on some cheese.  I remember when chefs started putting eggs on top of everything from breakfast to dinner.  Mom:  “Why does everyone have to ruin a perfectly good dish by putting a fried egg on top of it?  Yuck!”

From April to November each year, we spent our weekends at my grandparents’ house.  They owned cottages on Lake Erie and the whole family worked there during tourist season. I don’t remember cooked breakfasts at the cottages, but I do remember the huge box of doughnuts that was always on the kitchen counter. 

My grandpa would go to the local bakery in Vermilion and pick up a box of doughnuts for everyone.  He must’ve bought at least two dozen because I remember that box was enormous! If I was there early enough, I went with him and helped him pick out the selection of glazed, jelly, crullers, danish and custard.  My little nose pressed up against the glass admiring the shiny, pretty pastries.  My favorites were the danish that looked like figure eight’s filled with lemon or raspberry and drizzled with white icing.  So many pretty things, glazes sparkling, jellies the colors of fine gems. Years later, I’d behave the same way at Tiffany’s.

By high school, I’d still have my bowl of cereal in the morning.  Maybe a Pop Tart here and there. My dad was the one who expanded my breakfast knowledge. By the time I was a teenager, he worked nights so the only time I’d see him was on the weekends. Once in a while, we’d go out for breakfast at Perkins where he would order fried eggs over easy to dip his toast in the yolk. He would order sausage and gravy with biscuits. The first time I saw that dish I thought, “That’s the foulest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dad taught me about Denver omelets, chicken fried steak, eggs Benedict, and the finer points of breakfast potatoes. He had definite opinions about hash browns versus home fries.

My dad had a couple business trips so Mom and I tagged along. We stayed in a nice hotel where I was introduced to the omelet station. 

An omelet station? This was a thing?  A nice person in chef whites greeted me and gestured to a table filled with options for my omelet. I could choose from an array of bacon, sausage, ham, seafood, peppers, scallions, cheeses, tomatoes, mushrooms…and the nice person would make an omelet just for me! Later on, when I came home for Easter break from college, Mom and Dad would treat me to the fancy breakfast buffet at Pier W, a white tablecloth restaurant with a view of Lake Erie.  Not only did Pier W have an omelet station, they had a carving station, a dessert station, a beverage station.  I’d never seen such a fuss over one meal.

When it was time for college, the dining hall did nothing to break my picky eater streak. I just continued breakfasting on a bowl of cereal and a banana.  I looked forward to my parents’ visits because it meant a reprieve from the dining hall.  Saturday morning we’d go to Burger King for French toast sticks and little round hash browns.  Greasy, but tasty, and a known commodity. On Sunday, Mom and Dad would treat me and my roommate, V, for a trip to Bob Evans for a nicer, heartier breakfast before they left for home.  V and Mom had similar taste buds.  I remember them always ordering the plates of waffles or pancakes dripping with syrup, macerated fruit, and whipped cream. Dessert for breakfast!

During spring breaks, I took road trips to Tennessee where I discovered Waffle House, Cracker Barrel, and Pancake Pantry.  I started falling in love with dogwoods, southern charm, and pecan waffles with scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns.

On drives from Ohio, when I finally saw a Cracker Barrel off the highway, it was a harbinger to the South and my future. When I lived in Nashville, my friend, Cheryl, and I would sometimes treat ourselves to weekend breakfasts. We’d leave a name at the hostess stand and head for the front porch to sit in rocking chairs, waiting for our table.  A trip in the winter months meant we’d walk to our table and feel the warmth of the lit fireplace.  

When my dad came to visit us, he’d take us to Cracker Barrel. We ate grits together, hash brown casserole, and biscuits with yes, sausage and gravy.  Dad was right! He knew what he was talking about.

Lots of little breakfast rituals began.

Sunday brunches with a cute boy in Nashville where we’d share a perfectly cooked frittata loaded with roasted vegetables and lots of fresh thyme.  

A feta cheese omelet at The Diner on Clifton in Lakewood, Ohio, so close to my single girl apartment, I could walk there.

The best bowl of oatmeal in my life at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas.

Steaming hot popovers with strawberry butter on the Upper East Side in New York City.

In both Nashville and around Detroit, I found out that if the Krispy Kreme sign was lit up, it was time to make a hard right into the parking lot and grab a dozen freshly baked glazed donuts.

Then I met G and found out he had a deep and abiding love of breakfast too. He and I became a couple who brunched.

Part II of my breakfast evolution next week!

Thanks again for reading! I care about you. Please don’t forget to eat your greens.

***Written to HAIM, all the albums!