My husband likes to complain that it is difficult to buy me gifts. Though I admit that I am not a fan of many traditional gift items (flowers, candy, jewelry, etc.), I do regularly make suggestions for appropriate presents. He just regularly forgets. So the issue is not that it’s difficult to buy for me, instead it is that he doesn’t listen. (Do you like how I turned that around?)
As I started to consider what to get him for this Father’s Day, I realized that Brian doesn’t make it easy, either. It’s not that he doesn’t want stuff — because he wants lots and lots of stuff— it’s that the stuff he wants is many thousands of dollars and more of a pipe dream than an actual request. And anything else he wants, he just buys.
There was the fish finder incident of ’01 when he went out to buy a $100 to $200 instrument and came home with something that cost many more dollars. Then there was the over-priced water jet flossing machine that he used exactly two times. And the meat delivery program that included 30 pounds of meat each month, before we had kids, and when I was a vegetarian.
With gift-buying out of the question, I briefly considered a breakfast-in-bed scenario. Brian loves his breakfast. Like, really, really loves his breakfast.
The first time Brian and I went away together, we visited his grandparents. We woke up to the fabulous smell of frying bacon wafting through house. As we readied our plates, I took a slice off the pile and met his grandfather’s displeased gaze, “That’s for Brian.”
He didn’t mean that one piece of bacon was for Brian, he meant the entire pound. They cooked an entire pound of bacon for one person. When he was a teenager, he would eat a pound of bacon on buttered white toast. I suppose I should have noticed the Wonder Bread on the counter.
Early into our relationship, I realized how serious he was about the food when he became overwhelmed with emotion when my mother passed her cast iron skillet down to us. He had turned down a family engagement ring without a second thought, but the frying pan was treated with the reverence one would show the Holy Grail.
When we had to plan our wedding seating assignments, we arranged a meeting of the families. Having both sides over to our apartment was a little daunting so when Brian offered to take on dinner, I was thrilled. Mind you, this was before I had seen him in action in the kitchen, before I knew that he was essentially the culinary Tazmanian Devil, leaving a trail of filth and destruction in his wake. From the 19 dirty spoons (a new one for each stirring because he can’t find the last one he just used 11 seconds prior) to the multiple fish racks filling the sink, there was no end to my shock, as I followed behind him, trying desperately to keep some semblance of order in the kitchen I had just scrubbed clean.
Not only did he choose an untested dish for our large group, he insisted on plating and presenting them individually. So I went from dishwasher to sous chef to server, without really knowing what the hell had happened. I won’t lie, he did an amazing job with the meal, but it was quite a shock to find out that the man I was marrying, the man who would happily leave the house wearing black socks and sandals, was upset that we didn’t have the proper kitchen tool for drizzling sauce across the fish fillet.
The surprises continued as the years went on, but none as much as the breakfast-making ritual. And I don’t use the word ritual lightly. As a family, we run around six days a week. While there is always some semblance of a meal in the morning hours, it is usually disjointed and constructed on an individual basis.
But on Sundays, there is bacon. Every Sunday at the Nigro house starts with bacon in the frying pan. Any attempt to offer an alternative option is met with both shock and horror. Our bacon is even named Sunday Bacon. And this is Brian’s baby. There are rules to bacon frying that exist only inside his head. And should he need to step away from the pan, for any reason, they must be followed by whomever dares to step up to the stove. And sometimes you have to step away from the stove when it takes an hour to fry up a few slices of bacon. One hour. One. Hour.
Once that exhausting task is complete, the making of the eggs may commence. Here’s where it gets dicey. If Brian just wants a fried egg, no problem. As long as the pan has not been used, and befouled, by any one else, he can crack an egg, add a lot of salt and pepper and be done with it. But God help us all if he wants over-easy or, (please Jesus, no) an omelette.
I understand that the point of over-easy is to have a runny yolk that one can scoop up with toast. Though it makes me gag a little to think about eating such a thing, I get that this is a thing people like. However, if the yolk happens to break, I imagine that most people would be slightly disappointed. Perhaps they may even discard the egg and start again. That’s not quite how it works here.
After the cursing has subsided, there is an eery silence. The deformed creation is then moved to the plate and, with quiet resignation, Brian eats it, like a captain who just failed a mission and must carry his wounded back to camp. But even this is mild in comparison to the omelette.
It starts with the bowl in which he scrambles the eggs (three eggs, always three eggs). We only have one bowl like it and if it’s dirty, he is absolutely dumbfounded, “Now what am I supposed to do?” Umm, “wash it?”
This suggestion is met with indignation. Not part of the process, not OK. In the name of peace, I wash it. I can’t stand to watch the internal struggle as it plays out on his face.
Once the pan is deemed ready, the eggs go in and the dance begins in earnest. In goes the bacon and cheese. Like a chess match, Brian begins to strategize on how he will defeat the pan and come out the victor. Because that’s what’s actually happening. It’s a competition that only he understands. It requires a carefully planned flip where the omelette becomes a perfect half circle. Perfect. Any deviation brings out a fury that Brian reserves just for this occasion.
Last week, the pan viciously attacked Brian’s omelette, leaving shreds of egg and bits of bacon in a twisted mass. When the flip went bad, he actually threw the spatula, tossing his arms in the air. It was all very Gordan Ramsey-esque.
“Jesus, I can’t even look at it.”
I didn’t even try to stifle the laugh. Because that amount of crazy must be properly addressed and disparaged.
At his behest, I finished cooking it and promised I would look away while he ate, so as to not further his shame.
So I think I’ll probably just get him some lures. Or maybe a nice dri-fit shirt.
Happy Father’s Day to all of you dads out there. May your day be filled with sunshine, laughter and the perfect breakfast.
If you’re feeling up to the challenge, try out Brian’s recipe for a bacon and cheese omelette. Just don’t screw it up.
Bacon Cheese Omelette
Ingredients
3 eggs
1/8 cup milk
2 slices American cheese
1 slice bacon, finely diced
bacon fat
salt and pepper, to taste
Don’t try to substitute anything. Any attempts to veer off-course will result in abject failure and humiliation. The ONLY exception is the addition of hot sauce. However, this will embrittle the eggs and increase the danger for breakage. You’ve been warned.
Directions
Heat the cast iron skillet (remember, there is no deviation allowed) over medium heat. Melt about a tablespoon of bacon fat in the pan. Use an adequately sized bowl (preferably green enamel) and scramble three eggs. Add salt and pepper. When the pan is properly heated (and only you and God will know when that is), pour the eggs into the pan. Once the edges have set, sprinkle the bacon over one half of the eggs on the colder side of the pan. (No, I’m not kidding.) Then break the cheese slices into thin strips and place them over the bacon, parallel to your fold line.
Don’t get cute and try to spread it over the entire pan. This will result in immediate failure. You might as well go back to bed and use that time to think about what you did. Once the cheese has half melted, you’ve entered the danger zone.
It’s time to flip. You must start with the proper stance, feet hip distance apart, shoulders squared to the pan. Place the spatula in your dominant hand and hold the skillet handle with your other hand. Carefully, but with confidence, slide the spatula under the non-bacon/cheese side of the egg and when you are supporting exactly half of the omelette, flip it onto the other half and pray that God is with you. If you are successful, you have made it through the hardest part. Just be sure, once it’s finished cooking, to get it out of the pan in one piece. Use two spatulas, if necessary.
But, if you have failed, just walk away. Turn off the burner, hang your head and let shame fill your empty belly
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Laurie Nigro, is the mother of two biological children and one husband. She also takes care of a menagerie of animals that leave throw-up around for her to step in in the middle of the night. Laurie’s passionate about frugal, natural living, which is a nice way of saying she’s a kombucha-brewing, incense-burning, foodie freak who tries really hard not to spend money on crap made by child laborers. You can hear her rant about her muse (aka husband) and other things that have no bearing on your life, in this space each Sunday.
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