samedi, mai 16, 2009


(Long Horn Diner, Chattanooga TN)

Saturday mornings I'd smell the scrambling eggs before I opened my eyes. Or the whirr of the ancient blender mixing orange juice concentrate and tap water into a froth. Once in a while I'd wake to the muted growl of the stove fan - which always started-up with a clunky reluctance and then increased to a frenzy that suggested it was trying to escape the confines of our bright and cluttered house.

On special Saturdays, apparently determined at random, there would be pancakes. Made according to a recipe in my dad's head, we'd all sit around the kitchen island waiting for batches hot off the flat-top. Slathered with yoghurt and fruit syrup, or white sugar and lemon juice, we'd eat and talk and listen to the finest of CBC radio one and fight over who got to start the Globe's crossword.

Pretty much the poster family for Can-con.

After I moved away from my parents' house, Saturday breakfasts diversified: classic english fry-ups, mid-afternoon grilled cheese sandwiches, cafe brunches, huevos rancheros wrapped in naan, strong coffee. Most were consumed on the tail-end of a hangover. Most were location-specific.

Consistency was coffee and the Saturday Globe, sometimes a few weeks old, that my father sent me every week for the three years I lived overseas.

These days Saturday mornings are still often hungover. And I have better access to the Globe than I ever thought I would. But he doesn't really do breakfast, and - spoiled by years of smelling scrambled eggs - I am loath to put in such effort just to assuage my grumbling stomach and yearning for an evaporated perfection.

So we compromise.

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