Oh, Lord, on a chilly February morning, I really like a good breakfast. Sizzling bacon. Fluffy pancakes. Eggs, over easy, and a mixing-bowl-sized cup of coffee with double cream.
I know dietary experts would disagree. But, OMG, must every day begin with Fiber One?
During the COVID shutdown, Hubby and I discovered weird vandals had swathed our garage light with dead tiger lily leaves.
“You never know how quarantine boredom will affect some people,” he said.
Eventually, we discovered Courtney, a robin, wasn’t bored. She was constructing a nest.
She and Jason, her mate, must have flunked Nestbuilding 101. Their shapeless leaf pile dangled halfway to the ground.
No eggs or nestlings fell. Still, we felt sorry for the hardworking couple. Hopefully, they’d consult a new architect before trying that blueprint again.
“Looks like we hung shrunken heads on the garage,” I observed.
Eventually, the robins’ mess toppled.
Instead, Courtney and Jason built another amorphous mound of lily leaves, topped by a tipsy nest.
We held our breath as Courtney settled in. Don’t lean to the right! Or left! No heavy lifting. Raise your feet so they won’t swell!
Courtney took on a new-mama look: frazzled and frumpy, with missing feathers she’d worked into her nest. She probably couldn’t stand Jason, debonair in his neat, black-and-red suit. You did this to me!
Still, Jace babysat eggs and brought food to his grouchy spouse.
We grandparents-to-be grudgingly admitted the garage-light choice made sense. Under an overhang, the birds escaped bad weather. A perfect distance from the ground and roof, their abode protected them from interested neighborhood cats.
Those kids were smarter than we thought.
For Courtney, 14 days on the nest probably seemed like 14 years.
Then, it happened.
Hubby yelled, “Jason’s pecking at the nest!”
Our worry changed to celebration. Three tiny, wide-open beaks clamored for Daddy Jason’s tasty victual.
“Ya-ay-ay! Triplets!”
We did the Grandma-and-Grandpa Dance.
Unsure of their gender, we named the babies Ellie, Nellie and Belly — the last, the pushiest at dinnertime.
Their parents, making 100 trips a day to find food, didn’t care about their children’s preferences: “What, you think this is McDonald’s? Eat!”
They did. A lot.
Soon, they crowded the nest as if in the back seat of a VW Beetle. Before long, the triplets left home.
Impossible! A little sad. But even nasty viruses couldn’t banish our smiles as we witnessed that shiny, brand-new life. How glad we were that Courtney and Jason moved into our neighborhood!
Though, about that nest blueprint, kids. Maybe you should check out different ones the next time?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have birds squatted on your property?
There are humans who never spill or stain. Really.
As babies, they don’t spit up. School pictures feature pristine pastels. They finish sports seasons without a single grass stain. As adults, they never squirt lobster juice on other diners at upscale restaurants.
If you qualify, please continue so you understand people like me. “Egg on my face” is not just an expression. Egg not only spatters my chin, cheeks and glasses, but nests in my belly button.
I always thought such disasters were my fault. But modern wisdom says we’re all victims, so I now blame my DNA.
How about you?
Do new pens spring 57 leaks at checkout?
Do supermarket ladies dump beet samples on you?
Do road workers match tarring sessions with your commute?
Then you are stain royalty, a lifetime heir of splotches, blotches and smudges.
Try to think positive. As a child, I snacked on a sleeve, the equivalent of a PB&J sandwich.
Despite serious efforts to avoid staining my teen fashions, though, splotches appeared whenever I brushed against oxygen.
Fortunately, love blinded my new husband to this handicap — until I did laundry: “Where did these lavender spots on my underwear come from?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Washers don’t like me.”
Give the man credit. He not only has endured decades with a stain queen, but with kids who took after her. One toddler decided Dad’s underwear needed a rainbow hue and tossed crayons into the dryer.
I couldn’t have done better myself.
They’re adults now, with their own little messies. Though my children still suffer from drops and dribbles, their kids’ mishaps supply excellent camouflage. When grandchildren visit, Grandma shares this benefit.
Still, you’d think fellow stainers and I would never wear white or khaki. But miracle products rescue us: bleaches and stain removers — and friends who carry them in their purses. When I dumped punch on a tablecloth, my friend not only loaned me her bleach stick, she gave me an extra.
I shout out other marginalized heroes: the dry cleaners.
Although last time I hauled a load, I found the door locked and a sign: “Rachael Phillips: We’ve moved to Hafnarfjörður, Iceland. All others: Return after she leaves.”
Sigh. That’s the fifth dry cleaning store in town that’s moved to Iceland.
Doesn’t this awaken compassion, you of stainless zeal? Shouldn’t you nix criticism until you’ve walked in my gasoline-dotted shoes?
Finally, fellow sufferers, I feel your stain pain and offer an inspiring quote: Walk carefully and carry a big stain stick.
Or stick with friends who do.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a stain queen?
Medical experts preach, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
I’m glad to comply. Unlike those who inexplicably avoid food all morning, I awake, ready to raid the kitchen. However, nutritionists and I cross forks here. Their idea of a good breakfast and mine don’t even try to get along.
During winter, who wants to leave a cozy bed to face a slimy bowl of vitamin-fortified, fiber-rich wood chips?
In the “good old days,” Sugar Blasters or Corn Syrupies were considered positive sources of energy. Question: Who ever gave birth to children who didn’t possess enough energy? We parents and grandparents are the people who should pack in energy-generating foods. Cheese Danish or chocolate-cream-filled doughnuts present a sufficient alternative.
My mother fixed hot breakfasts during winter: eggs; breakfast meat, when we could afford it; and unlimited toast dripping warm butter and jelly. Pancakes, stacked like records above a turntable. French toast, swimming in Mom’s homemade sugar syrup. “Fill ’em up’” comprised the key concept. She did, deliciously.
When we traveled, Dad decreed inexpensive breakfast as our main meal. Breakfast buffets had not yet made an appearance during the ’60s — which explains that period’s prosperity. Had they existed, my younger brother alone would have struck fear into the hearts of restaurant owners.
We did impact one corner of the international market. Upon seeing his citrus groves stripped, our Mexican mission caretaker referred to us tree-climbing missionary kids as “la plaga norteamericana” (North American plague).
I also savored tortillas baked over a community fire, spread with wild honey. Killjoy Mom worried that the cooks washed their hands maybe once a decade. I worried because the Mexican women, concerned about my skinny frame, attempted to make me eat raw egg.
Since then, I’ve encountered other global ideas of a “good breakfast.” Morning menus in England included: fried kidneys; baked beans on toast; and black pudding, consisting of oatmeal, pork, fried onions and pork blood. Russian immigrants my parents harbored preferred beet borscht and dill pickles.
Breakfasts Dad concocted when Mom was sick — watery canned soup and last-of-the-loaf butter sandwiches — almost seem delectable.
Decades later, when Mom suffered from dementia, Dad’s culinary skills improved. When I visited, I wolfed breakfasts of sausage, eggs, biscuits, and coffee strong enough to serve itself. My doctor would have run screaming, dragging me with her, at the sight. After days of these feasts — plus Dad’s dumping extra on my plate with the command, “Finish up! It’ll just go to waste!”— I almost craved my usual wood chips.
Not. Remembering such wonderful food and my parents’ I-love-you bickering — they now keep each other company in heaven — I loved that good breakfast.
One of the best.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite breakfast?
I measure the distance between extended family in states rather than miles. The lone exception, my brother Ned, lives in another part of Indiana.
A year apart, we played together like twins until I started school, where he acknowledged my existence only by a raised eyebrow.
Fortunately, he no longer regards sisters as threats to his manhood. We phone occasionally, but not often enough. I recall several years ago when we met halfway between our homes for breakfast.
We chose a mom-and-pop establishment, where we could indulge in illegal eggs over easy, crispy bacon and infinite cups of curl-your-hair coffee. Or the mortal sin of biscuits with gravy.
Entering, I saw no sign of Ned. As I walked toward a vinyl booth, I expected — and received — the who-are-you-stranger? once-over.
Homeland Security should catch onto this resource, one that could revolutionize national safety procedures. We don’t need metal detectors or X-rays. If the government would pay a tableful of these locals to drink coffee at security points, no terrorist in his right mind would try to get past their scrutiny.
Born and raised in rural Indiana, I knew I’d broken the rules. No woman eats breakfast alone in a strange town. As a sweet-faced waitress brought me blessed coffee, I pulled out my Bible and read while I waited. Eye-lasers clicked off one by one. Their owners swiveled back to their breakfasts. They gave Congress and the weather their morning cussing and analyzed high school basketball with an expertise that would put ESPN out of business.
Until my brother walked in. Immediately, the force field returned. As Ned headed toward my booth, question marks formed in the air, visible as if smokers had blown them.
“Good to see ya, Sis!” Ned trumpeted. He knew the rules, too.
The diners returned to their vivisection of basketball referees, as the waitress took our order. She brought us waffles, eggs and ham. Biscuits and gravy.
With bowed heads, we asked God to bless the cholesterol. Our words filled and warmed us as much as the steaming, delicious food. We solved our kids’ problems (if they would just listen!). We cheered the utter perfection of our grandchildren.
All too soon, our separate worlds called to us. We promised to connect sooner next time.
Before we separated, I demanded a hug, just to give the town conversation material for the next few weeks.
Ned’s eyebrow went up. But the hug happened.
It can’t happen today, in 2020.
But after this blasted COVID crisis ends, I’ll collect every one of those hugs that have piled up in the meantime.
Even if he raises the other eyebrow.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Whom do you want to hug post-COVID?