Breaking Fast

I just had one of my favorite breakfasts, and it included a leftover. For the record, my fast lasted 12 hours. That’s enough fasting for me.

The basics are pancetta, scrambled eggs, and dill hollandaise sauce.

Pancetta is Italian bacon - not easy to find. It is cured with salt and spices but not usually smoked. How discernible is pancetta from good old-fashioned American porkers? Very little. But because of its Italian lineage, stores can charge more.

Trader Joes sells four-ounce packages of diced pancetta. Dill hollandaise is a basic hollandaise recipe with 1-2 tablespoons of finely chopped fresh dill added to the blender just prior to slowly pouring in the melted butter.

The dill hollandaise was leftover from an asparagus recipe I prepared for guests over the weekend. The asparagus is sprinkled with olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper and baked in a baking dish at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes. The time depends on the thickness of the stalks. Asparagus doneness is a matter of taste. If you pick up a stalk and it collapses like al dente* spaghetti, it is over-cooked. You won’t even need teeth to process it. Process? That would be eating. Fork-tender is usually a good indicator.

The dill hollandaise is served on the side at the table. It is a rich sauce, so don’t water-board the asparagus with it.

For breakfast, first sauté a couple ounces of pancetta for 4-5 minutes, to a crispness similar to the way you like your bacon. Whip up whatever portion of scrambled eggs is needed for one person, or as hungry as you may be. Blend the eggs and pancetta together until the eggs are done (the whites of the eggs disappear), then top with the reheated dill hollandaise. There is a fair amount of salt in the pancetta and in the dill hollandaise mixture, so this concoction probably doesn’t need any more seasoning.

For two or more, simply adjust the pancetta and scrambled eggs’ portions.

*Al dente is a method of pasta preparation perfected by the noted Italian chef, Al Dente.

Dressing for Success

I’m proud to say that I no longer own a suit, and I can’t remember the last time I wore a tie. Still, I usually make an effort to look presentable, something without holes, or food stains, and color coordination on even days.

The other day I grabbed a sweatshirt out of my closet. I thought it was our daughter’s commemorative college sweatshirt that reads: “Dad, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. (UC Santa Cruz is not big on college sports - too slimy.)

After chatting with PJ in the kitchen (where my sweatshirt’s front was in full view), I dashed out for a few errands. At Trader Joes while checking out, the cashier commented that her sister had matriculated from UC Santa Cruz. (She didn’t say matriculated, but being the sister of a UCSC grad, I like to think that some of it rubbed off.) We exchanged a few pleasantries and I headed to the car, noting that this sweatshirt was often a conversation-starter.

Something made me look down. I had donned PJ’s sweatshirt that reads, “Mom, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. The Trader Joes’ cashier deserves an award from the political correctness police. Fortunately, the fashion police were not patrolling.

This was not a Freudian slip waiting for a slip-up. Being a Domestic Engineer Guy is not another term for Mr. Mom. And no, I’m not sensitive about it! Besides, I’ve never worn a slip, Freudian or otherwise.

I had four options: return home and re-attire, take off the sweatshirt, accessorize with a purse and scarf, or turn it inside out. I chose the fourth option. Option one wastes gas, option two is not a pretty sight, and I don’t stock my car with female accessories.

I finished my errands, frequently assuming the pledge-of-allegiance position whenever someone was close enough to notice my attire aberration.

Returning home I confronted PJ over her wively duty failure. After so many years of marriage (guys never ask our wives how we look – we’re not metrosexuals), she rarely comments. Conversely, nary a day passes where she doesn’t ask, “How does this look on me?” – close cousins of another entrapping question, “Does this make my butt look too big?”

The more relevant question is, “What was her sweatshirt doing in my closet”? Fair question. In case you were wondering, I am not accustomed to choosing my clothes from her closet. Because I am Laundry Man, the fault is mine. Since our sweatshirts matched in every way but one word, I inadvertently hung her sweatshirt to dry on my laundry line section, which then ended up in my closet. I’m a guy who considers clothing options for about three seconds. Without access to a queer eye for the straight guy, this was a faux pas just waiting to happen.

Maybe I’ll dye her sweatshirt another color. I may not always be color-coordinated, but I’m not colorblind.