Breakfast of Champions

               Yeah.  Ain’t nothing beats a good steaming bowl of steel-cut oats for breakfast.  Two teaspoons of raw flaxseed swirled in.  Two teaspoons of good black raspberry preserve – no sugar added – for a little bit of color, unless you prefer fig or strawberry, or peach. Peach? No accounting for taste.  No milk or cream or sugar or anything else in that bowl of oats.  Stir it all up and dive in.  Yup.  Nothing beats a good steaming bowl of steel-cut oats for breakfast.

               Except maybe nice thick prime bone-in ribeye, medium rare, thank you, two eggs perfectly sunny side-up.  Texas toast slathered with real honest-to-God butter, with a generous panhandle sprinkling of chili powder and extra garlic powder holding the butter in place.  Texas country fries with butter just oozing out, laced with two quick twists of freshly cracked peppercorns.

                Except maybe six man-sized flapjacks, golden brown with fingers of crisp here and there around the edges.  Two melon-ball scoops of creamy butter melting in a pool of warm, thick, sweet molasses, lazily leaking over the stack’s edges.  Link sausage spastically covering every inch of plate not hidden by flapjacks.

                Except maybe two thick slabs of country smokehouse ham, including the outer ringlets of fat.  Three eggs over easy, mashed potatoes with red-eye gravy.  Spider-baked cornbread oozing butter made with red clover honey fresh from the comb.

                Except maybe if the smokehouse has no ham, thick juicy pork chops with scrambled eggs, Alabama country-fries and some of that good southern staple, milk gravy.  Momma’s drop biscuits and butter from the stovetop drizzled generously across the top and a pot full of elderberry jam within arm’s reach.

                Except three generous hunks of good, dark, course-ground gristly Kielbasa topped with creamy horseradish mustard. Polish pancakes rolled-up around strawberry-rhubarb jam – crepes from just after the French learned about fire and actually cooking food.  Three extra large eggs over hard, sprinkled with flaked Kosher salt and fresh pepper.

                Except maybe three four-inch sausage patties, abetted by a fistful of Jalapeno peppers surrounding a four-egg Denver omelet: sautéed spring onions, red, yellow, and green peppers, and tomatoes diced fine.  Just enough tender ham, Mozzarella and Jack cheese secretly blended-in to put ‘Denver’ in Denver.  Three two-inch thick slices of French bread flame-toasted and dragged through butter.

                Except maybe three Alaska salmon-sausage patties green with dill sprinkles on top.  A four-egg omelet barely containing sweet onion and oysters inside with Camembert cheese melting on top. A small side of elk steak, medium-rare with garlic and rosemary making love to the juices just before it jumps out of the skillet.  Black raspberry granola muffins with honey-butter.

                Except Navy beef-on-a-raft* over four pieces of yesterday’s leftover toast.  Three eggs sunny-side-up – yolks just clouded-over, or lacking sunny-side-up skills, scrambled loose with a dent in the center filled with butter.  Hash browns crowded perilously close to falling off the plate.  A bottle of Texas Pete to liberally red-welcome everything.

                Except lobster claws surrounding scrambled eggs with garlic, sharp cheddar cheese, and diced tomato. Cubanelle pepper rings trying to escape the eggy embrace.  Crisp fried potato coins. Blueberry muffins so sweet and juicy they wouldn’t hold butter if you threatened them with a pat or two.

                Except soufflé-soft waffles floating in rich thick maple syrup, three pats of butter threatening to fill all the little square grill patterns.  A side plate of Maine corned-beef hash with a single egg poached by the steaming hash. Jalapenos garnishing the plate’s edges.

                Except five sugar-cured bacon slivers laced across a burrito chock full of sliced steak, Asiago cheese, red and green peppers, green onions, a solitary Habanero pepper and pinto beans. A fist-sized sour-cream dollop riding the mountain crest.

                Except fresh-caught trout pan-fried on an open-fire with two hunks of jowl bacon making the pan non-stick. A bowl of cheese-laced grits, and generous fresh tomato slices seasoned with basil and pepper, tossed into the pan just long enough to weep flavor and succulence into the trout.

                Oh, don’t forget the coffee.  Dark, rich, robust, strong coffee unashamedly close to espresso. Oils swirling across the top with bubbles just short of foam.  Set the pot right here on the table, please, I’m sure I’ll need two cups or more before I surrender.

               Yeah.  Ain’t nothing beats a good steaming bowl of steel-cut oats for breakfast.

                The wife disagrees.  Once in a while we don’t see eye-to-eye.  She assures me there is nothing better than a lovely, generous three ounces of plain, zero-fat, zero-sugar Greek yogurt, with a teaspoon or two of quality vanilla extract and fresh berries – big red strawberries, plump juicy blueberries, snappy bright red raspberries, generous tender golden raisins, or lacking berries perhaps half a firm, creamy yellow banana sliced nicely – across the top.

               Yup, nothing beats clabbered milk and sissy food for breakfast.

* beef-on-a-raft: Growing up, we enjoyed a more picturesque name for this delicacy.  [6-15-2022: Bearshit on a raft.] It was quite apt, actually.  So as not to declare this NSFW for one word, and reluctantly, I edited.  Often, it strikes me that propriety destroys much of life’s savor. [6/15/-2022: Shame on you, PC-assholes, for taking away more than half of life’s variety.]

© S P Wilcenski 7-24-2017 and again 6-15-2022

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