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.


A Hot Time in the Old Town

Yesterday, just before 4:00 p.m., the power went out. That isn’t a terribly unusual occurrence, so we waited a breath to see if it would come right back on.

Two breaths. Three.

It was 91 degrees. Actual degrees, not heat index. The heat index was close to 101 °F. In a matter of minutes without the fans and window a/c, the house was a sauna. My Taller Half and I both have conditions that make us intolerant to heat. I was beginning to be nauseated. I looked over at our neighbor’s house. Her car was gone. I texted her to let her know the power was out, so not to hurry home.

My UPS was chirping a warning that my backup power was dwindling. I navigated to our power company website. They expected the power to be restored in an hour or two. We flipped the switch for the porch light and jumped in the car to take a blissfully cool drive. As we left town, we saw no lights. Police officers directed traffic at our busiest intersections. The team from Sonic gathered outside the restaurant, while one waved away cars from the drive-thru.

We headed over to Slightly Bigger Town, taking the long way. We stopped for a bite to eat. My Taller Half and I chatted over the everything from politics to entertainment to how that one rest stop on the highway was FINALLY open after The Big Storm that hit here nearly three years ago. It’s much smaller now. Clean but too practical. No character. I love long rides with my honey.

About two hours had passed when we drove back to Pixley. The traffic signals at the busier intersections were working, but not all the signals were. I suspected those signals had backup power. Everything was suspiciously dark and quiet. No porch light glowed in front of our house. The power company website stated that the power should be back by 6 a.m.

Let’s talk heat. My Taller Half and I are both natives and no strangers to heat. We grew up in homes without air conditioning. Our current home has no central a/c — only a couple of old window units, none in the bedroom. We use a lot of fans. We chuckle when we read news from the UK reporting that marathons were cancelled for temperatures in the low 70s. But as much as we hate to admit it, age and illness have taken their toll, and we both suffer from heat intolerance. Heat intolerance, a particular sensitivity to heat and humidity, has many causes. The very young and the very old are particularly susceptible. Heart medications, allergy medications, spinal cord injuries, diabetes, Postural Orthostatic Hypotension (POTS), Multiple Sclerosis (MS), Parkinson’s, Fibromyalgia, hyperthyroidism, and a host of other conditions can make temperatures that would ordinarily be merely unpleasant a potential danger.

I mentioned spending the night in a motel. Not a local motel — they had no power. My Taller Half said I could, but he would not leave the cats in the heat. I would not leave him in the heat. Neither of us brought up my poor dog … although she could have come to the motel. A couple of our cats love to loll about on a hot sidewalk and refuse to come inside when invited. I was pretty sure the heat wouldn’t hurt them. But I knew that, best case scenario, I would be in poor shape for work the next day if we sweltered all night. We entered the house. The UPS was silent. “I’m going to go buy a generator,” MTH announced.

We have talked about this a lot lately. It only makes sense with us living in a place that is fairly remote. It would be invaluable after another big storm, or when Jim Bob clips a power pole with his rig. And with heat intolerance, it’s a good idea to have a backup plan when you live in the South. We could afford it. Barely. But I didn’t know where we would store it, and it would put a big dent in our dwindling savings. I got online, and in minutes, I located an inexpensive (relatively), dual-fuel model that was highly rated. Now we had to drive to The Big City.

The route out of town was different than the one we took earlier, and everything was dark. The lights were out in our entire town. There were lights in the small town north of us. 170 days without an accident at the lumber mill. Well done!

The trip to The Big City was long but relatively uneventful. The most exciting part was struggling to fit the generator box in the car … and wondering how we would get it out again. We arrived home to a dark town and no porch light. The air outside was soup, and there was no breeze to stir it. The song of the frogs in the lot next door was almost drowned out by the thrum of generators running all over the neighborhood. It sounded as if the entire block decided to mow their lawns at once … in the dark. At least the moon was almost full. MTH went to gather flashlights. I ventured into the backyard to fetch the wheelbarrow. He began to work the generator box out of the back seat. We were working in the dark, in the heat, and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds were snacking on My Taller Half. A feral cat who comes around looking for handouts was indignant that we didn’t immediately produce food. He hissed at me. Ingrate.

MTH managed to set up the generator while I fetched multiple towels to mop up his sweat, held flashlights, and did other very important tasks. He sent me into the house to fish the extension cord through the window and into the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and our generator added its blissful thrum to the neighborhood chorus. I was puzzling out how we would manage to plug in both the refrigerator and a fan when I heard the whirr of the window a/c and the telltale beep of the UPS. The power was back. I turned on the lights to signal we didn’t need the generator any more. I won’t repeat what My Taller Half said.

He hit the showers. I walked and fed my dog, then fed and watered the other assorted critters. The heat sent my heart rate a bit too high, so I decided to postpone my shower for a bit so that I could rest in front of the a/c and chronicle our adventures. We missed Trivia Night at work, but we survived, the food in the freezer didn’t melt, the temperatures in the house were now bearable, and we are prepared for the next disaster. Life is good.