I seem to remember hearing “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
These days there’s much concern about Carbs etc. that I feel we’ve lost concepts like heartiness, stick to your ribs and larruppin’ good taste.
Yesterday we had the grankids staying with us. I had a hankerin’ for a good ol’ southern breakfast. I wake up at around five thirty, whether I want to or not. I guess it’s and age thing. I checked the sourdough starter—foamy! So I whomped up a batch of biscuits and shoved them in their skillet into the oven.
I thawed out a bag of venison pan sausage a friend had given me, and browned it in another skillet. Taking the sausage out to drain, I fried up some bacon, nice and crisp, and took it out, leaving the delicious drippings in the pan.
I threw in a fistful of four and stirred into a roux until it smelled like burnt popcorn, then poured in enough half and half to whisk into a loose gravy. Then I dumped the sausage back in the skillet.
When the biscuits came out of the oven, all nice and brown on top, the ankle biters showed up. I guess the aroma got to them. So I had them set the table while I fried up some fresh yard eggs from another friend.
We cut up a cantaloupe from our garden, and sat down to bacon and eggs with biscuits and gravy and cantaloupe (or mush melon, as my grandma used to call it).
I called it a good ol’ Tennessee breakfast. They didn’t understand what I was talking about so I got out the USA map to point out Tennessee. Then on a whim I asked them to show me where Washington DC was. They pointed to Washington State.
Maybe that’s better anyway, should I tell them?