First Breakfast

My Taller Half and I are both under the weather. No, it’s not COVID. It’s just aging or genetics or paying the price for past carelessness. Normally, we’d be in the Bigger City to the south, listening to our pastor preach a great sermon. After church, we’d do our regular Bigger City stock up run to all our favorites stores, grab some lunch, then head home for a nice nap. But we haven’t made that trip for a few weeks, and while we still have The Pig and Wally World nearby, it’s just not the same.

MTH fixes breakfast most mornings, so I decided it was my turn this morning. He likes his eggs on the softer side, while I’m the kid Ron Popeil envisioned when he invented his In-the-Egg Scrambler. One compromise we both enjoy is a scrambled egg concoction in my cast iron skillet. It’s a bit like a crustless quiche. Into the skillet go the vegetables, chopped meats, whatever I have or need to use, which I usually sauté, then I pour in the egg mixture and top with cheese. I pop that into the oven until it is firm and the cheese is melted.

But without shopping much lately, the cupboard is getting a little bare. We have mushrooms — always a good start — some shallots and some garlic. I could cook up some frozen broccoli, but my personal energy reserves were a bit low, so if there wasn’t any ready to go, it wasn’t going to happen. We have some sausage and maybe a few slices of bacon, but again, too tiring. We have an open jar of sun-dried tomatoes — into the pan they went. It would be good, but it really needs meat to be perfect. The sun-dried tomatoes had me thinking Mediterranean, those blue waters off the coasts of Greece or Italy I’ve seen in pictures. In the pantry, I found a can of sardines.

My dad used to eat sardines out of the can when I was a kid. It grossed me out. He also used to eat Vienna Sausages out of the can. Dad was in the Navy through two wars. It hardens a man … and his stomach. The only canned fish I ever buy is tuna and occasionally salmon. But one day, MTH came home with cans of smoked oysters and smoked fish.

“Here,” he said, shoving a fork bearing an unknown substance toward my mouth. I obeyed. We’re still practically newlyweds, so I give him a lot of leeway. It was some sort of fish, and it was good!

“What is it?”

“Smoked herring,” he told me, and I promptly forgot.

So the next time I was in the canned fish aisle, I tried to remember. What was it? It wasn’t anchovies, the little fishes that people put on pizza. Sardines? Yes, It must be sardines. So I brought MTH home a can of sardines, informing him that I bought more of the fish he enjoyed. “Those are sardines. We had smoked herring.” Sigh.

So this morning, with my head full of visions of fisherman on the Mediterranean, I spied the little can of sardines. How bad could it be? So into the pan, along with the sizzling mushrooms, shallots, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes, I added the sardines. They looked pretty good! I poured in the eggs scrambled with seasonings, topped it all with some shredded white cheddar, popped it into the oven, and started the coffee.

When I presented it to MTH, he looked a bit skeptical. He took a bite, then asked for a napkin.

“Are you going to spit it out?”

He mimicked gagging into his napkin then chuckled. “No, silly.”

I tried a bite. “I would definitely make this again. It’s good.” I looked at him, trying to read his opinion. He’s hard to read.

“It is good. Especially the sun-dried tomatoes.”

“I’ll add more next time.”

MTH humphed in agreement.

“I think it will keep well for lunch. I’ll eat the rest later.”

“I will, too.” It is a lot of food, and we’re not at our best. Second breakfast.

After breakfast, our phones started sending weather alerts. A tropical storm is heading our way. I am not too concerned. After our breakfast, we’re ready for anything.

Preferably a nap.