Saturday Morning

It’s Saturday Morning. My Infinitely Patient Spouse is exercising in another part of the house. Her current nutritional regimen precludes our usual breakfast together, so I have decided to make myself a fluffy omelet using found materials. Leftovers, if you will. The kitchen equivalent of folk art.

I start by cueing up a soundtrack of random selections from one of my playlists. Steve Jobs kicks things off with a medium-tempo tune by Bill Kirchen, the “King of Dieselbilly.”

Next I locate the skillet, and the lard. Yep, lard, hand-rendered by Casey Z, a fellow laborer in the telecommunications world, and somewhat of a Renaissance man. From the refrigerator, I also rescue the remnants of red and green bell peppers, some marginal whiteish mushrooms, three fresh eggs, and the last chicken thigh of a batch I baked last week. From the pantry comes a yellow onion, and a jar of Tico’s peppers, grilled jalapeƱos, side business of another co-worker.

Choppables, and two forms of chicken

I chop the choppables, add a small spoon of the lard to the hot skillet, and commence to saute. Once they are done, into a bowl they go. Doc Watson is flat-picking in the background.

Then I separate the eggs, whites in one bowl, yolks in another, and whip the whites using an old hand mixer. I fold the yolks into the fluffy whites, and dump the egg mixture into the skillet as Stevie Wonder croons a tune.

Yolks, whipped whites, and a mixer

While the eggs cook over low heat, I lay two pieces of multi-grain into the toaster oven, and set its timer for stun.

I’ve just noticed an elderly avocado on the counter that looks like fair game, so I half it, neatly de-seed it, and peel the halves. Then I slice the good parts into a pile on the chopping board, and squeeze some lemon onto it as Roy Orbison sings about a pretty woman.

The eggs and toast continue to cook, as Leon Russell takes the stage.

Eggs cooking in the skillet

When I decide that the eggs are ready, I spoon the sauteed mixture onto half of the eggs. The moment of truth draws near.

Getting close!

Gently I fold the other half over the plethora of ingredients. There is probably too much stuffing for a picture-perfect omelet, but what am I going to to – leave some behind? Here’s where I find out whether the eggs were really ready. And its not bad – maybe a smidge over-done, but perfectly serviceable.


I lever the omelet onto a plate, then add the avocado slices on top. I sprinkle on a little more lemon juice, and a dusting of seasoned salt, and finally top the whole thing off with a dollop of medium salsa from a huge jar left over from a Mexican party meal last summer. (The stuff lasts forever if you just shake it up occasionally.

Looks like breakfast to me

Bill Kirchen launches off into an extended version of his signature song, Hot Rod Lincoln, keeping me company as I dig in. In the middle of devouring the omelet, I realize it has no cheese, but I’m perfectly content without it. It’s everything I hoped it would be. And Doc Watson plays another folk tune from beyond the grave.

Almost gone. What, no cheese?!?

Finally it’s time for me to stuff the dishes into the dishwasher, and wash up the cooking tools. Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris serenade me through the suds and the spray.

Clean cooking tools

And, with perfect timing, my IPS walks into the kitchen just as I stow the last knife, and asks, “Have you had breakfast yet?”

All I need to do is show her the picture.

Once again, the camera at hand was not really up to the task of a photo-essay. I apologize to your eyes, and promise to do better next time. I should also warn you that I cook like I do most everything, with more gusto than skill. Ingest accordingly.

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