Breakfast for One

Visions of being the Beaver's mom rise up to make me feel guilty once again.....a perfectly set breakfast table,
                                                     for two.

Scrumptious weekend breakfasts I usually manage,
sometimes a blogworthy breakfast table......though usually
something like our vitamins and daily pills lurk,
                                                    unnoticed.

Weekday breakfasts? A pretty table for two? 
                                                   Get real.

Both of us sitting down together at the same time? 
                                                    Not likely.

Both of us eating the same menu? 
                                                  
His quick cooked oatmeal or fried baloney sandwich?
               Gag to the second and where oatmeal is concerned,
I am most particular...steel cut oats sautéd in butter and at last boiling water stirred in, cooked at least 20 minutes,
cinnamon, chopped dried apricots and walnuts added...
                                                     That's oatmeal.

For breakfasts I last longer when an egg is on my plate,
the egg sandwich Mama used to make me at the very least.

But my weekday breakfast indulgence happens when RH leaves me a sausage patty from his early breakfast...
                             from locally made Jake's country sausage.

A toasted sourdough English muffin from the Publix deli,
          the sausage on top,
                      a scrambled egg next,
                              a smear of mashed avocado
                                  topped with chopped jalapeno.

A side of fresh pineapple, please.

Breakfast for one, on the sofa, dogs sitting by me...
                                                   hoping a crumb will drop.

TV remote in my hand, no cable news, no news at all,
              no talk shows.

HGTV on, something I can walk away from shortly and
                        not become mesmerized, hypnotized,
                               energy zapped...
                                         temper rising.

That's a perfect weekday breakfast for me.

What about you?

Join me in your jammies and tell me

what your perfect breakfast for one is.

Please. Pretty please with sugar on it?

"My wife and I tried two or three times in the last

forty years to have breakfast together,

but it was so disagreeable we had to stop."

Winston Churchill

            

I need Red like Laurel needs Hardy.

I need Red like steak needs frites.

I need Red like strawberries need cream.

I need Red like fish need water.

I need Red like squirrels need nuts.

In short, I NEED RED!

Not just at Christmas but all year round. 

Over the Moon Chocolate Pie

Christmas was a blur to me after losing Otis and Milo and being sick myself so long.

I'm just now starting to play catchup.

I hope to post about our new dachshunds 

on Dewena's Window soon.

I feel badly that I've totally ignored the Window

but the good news is that Bree and Mason

are busy writing it for me.

Before all of Christmas escapes me,

I want to show a pie I made,

the only baking I did for Christmas.

It was from Southern Living magazine

and was called Over the Moon Chocolate Pie.

They based in on our state favorite--Moon Pies.

It calls for a Marshmallow Meringue topping and

I totally goofed it up.

The recipe said to cook the egg whites

(in a double boiler) only until the sugar dissolved.

I'm paranoid about raw eggs so cooked it and cooked it...

There were no raw eggs in my meringue,

but it was like eating saltwater taffy,

yummy and good exercise for your jaws.

Next time I'll trust the recipe--

or maybe I'll just make the delicious filling

on top of that wonderful crust and call it a day.

Or top it with real whipped cream, I mean REAL, folks.

 Have any of you ever made a marshmallow meringue?

And had it to succeed? 

Here's the link to Southern Living's recipe.

Frost Ferns

Frost ferns grow on glass here this morning when I open the kitchen door to let Bree and Mason out to go potty.

A sight I have not seen since a child living in Inglewood in a white clapboard two bedroom, one bath bungalow built after World War II, one of others along a street where the opposite side holds imposing pre-War brick homes.

I've lost count of the recent nights with single digit lows, faucets left to drip, frost on the storm door that opens to our kitchen porch. 

It is only this morning that ferns appear on the glass.

I could google this phenomena and tell you exactly what conditions cause this if I were so inclined. I'm not.

I grab my phone and snap pictures and call for RH to bring the camera.

I know the ferns won't stay long, and they don't.

But for a few moments we are lost in a magic world of crystal gardens that may never appear again.

The Snow Is Faling

"The snow is falling, silently, gently, beyond the panes.

Every branch is limned with snow.

There is no footprint across the wide lawn

among the great trees.

The field where the ground pine creeps is white

and the stone fence beyond it

is white also.

The woods are still and secret under the snow.

I have ever had the feeling that the

home of a true writer is in the 

center of a still snowfall,

where all his world is hidden,

so that he may discover it out of his own vision."

Nelia Gardner White

from The Pink House