More than the Benedict

June 19, 2015

It's another day of seemingly endless rain. Were it not for the indoor plumbing and Netflix, I might think we were living in Old Testament times. As a solarholic/hot-temp-aholic, rainy days with nary a twinge of sunlight make me a bit punchy. I don't twitch and drool, but like any good addict*, I have to find a fix somehow, or at least a solid distraction.

In this case, my boy suggested an excellent course of action: breakfast together that doesn't come out of a box or from a drive-thru window. Drew and I used to breakfast semi-frequently when the kids attended schools across town that started an hour apart. The two of us would ease into our day after dropping off his beleaguered sister at middle school (poor Grace). There is nothing more precious than a little convo over potatoes smooshed into an oval shape or a drippy piece of sausage couched between fluffy "homemade" biscuit halves. But sometimes we sat down to the real deal.

For me, breakfast is the holy grail of meals. The day-to-day Nance would present all evidence to the contrary, as I tend to eat something fruity/yogurty/or cerealy over the kitchen sink while swigging an ice cold Diet Coke. Nothing jumpstarts the system and the psyche like something proven to rot out the insides or pickle you. (This post is taking on a self-destructive tone--see asterisk below--but it has been raining for 40 days and 40 nights...wait...).

My true love for breakfast was ignited when I discovered Eggs Benedict. My Papa French introduced me to runny eggs sopped up with bread, but I didn't really pledge my soul to this culinary delight until the Benedict. And even then, it was a special plate that sealed the deal: my best friend and I were ushered to a perfect Jewish restaurant named Brent's while visiting LA 16 years ago. Our tour guides were natives of the town and proved themselves gurus of incomparable meals out. A case full of cakes miles high greeted us at the front counter, but the all-day breakfast menu reeled me in.

It was there, among dear friends in the San Fernando Valley, that the gold standard of Eggs Benedict and I shook hands and subsequently pledged a lifetime of love one for another. I didn't ask to smoke a cigarette after the last bite (there were children present), but it would not have been out of the question.

Since that time, many other attempts at my Benedict have been made. First Watch in KC, St. Louis and Tulsa have all made a run at it, with variations on the theme that include turkey and avocado. My first taste there was in the presence of friends Judy and Chad. Judy listened to me order the Hollandaise sauce on the side and sighed, "What the hell, Nancy? What's the point without the sauce?" Judy really loves me.  The Tulsa edition of First Watch was on Mother's Day, the day after I ran a half-marathon.  Needless to say, I could have eaten my Eggs Benedict and the plates and the silverware and the piles of food on tables all around me.  I restrained myself.

Chris's on the Hill in St. Louis certainly deserves honorable mention.  There we go either on the way to or the morning after a Cardinals game with my folks. The last time we were there an old friend of Dad's stopped by and mentioned an investigation by the Feds into his (not Dad's!) finances, houses seized, surveillance...but no worries! He was jovial, I felt like I was on an episode of "The Sopranos," and I focused on my eggs. No one asked any questions.

But there is an old diner in downtown Springtown, believe it or not, that comes closest. 

Gailey's is old school: it has the counter, the metal tables and chairs, and the vibe that we know what we are doing, so let's everyone just remain calm. Not surprisingly, it was a stellar group of students who introduced me to this little gem. 

Two years ago, on the morning of Drew's first day of second grade and the first day of my last year of teaching (unbeknownst to me at the time), to Gailey's I introduced Drew. Drew ate a meal appropriate for someone heading to his day job as a lumberjack, rather than the perils of grade school, but that's yet another thing I love about him. He knows what he likes and eats it. And plenty. The boy has never met a link of sausage he didn't like, and patting his belly appreciatively at the end of a meal is an acknowledgement that the link did, in fact, satisfy.

This morning we braved the rain for another breakfast date. My Eggs Benedict were delivered to me like a work of art. I admired the plate for a bit before diving in, while Drew rolled his eyes and slurped up his biscuits and gravy as if they might be taken from him before he could lick the plate. Delicious, we agreed.

The images of Brent's, First Watch and Chris's and the company there kept clicked by as I looked over at my son. As is often the case, the eggs are always best when accompanied by the best. Friends, family, eggs, memories. Who needs the sun?

_________

*When I dined with my former students a couple days ago, Hannah (a textbook ginger) put an alabaster arm up next to mine. 

"You are so tan," she said. 

"I know," I said, resigned to my choices. "I'm trying to join Doug's race." (Doug is a lovely mix with a white mama and an African-American dad. He is self-described as a "white man trapped in a black man's body.")

"Are you worried about skin cancer?" Hannah asked.

"Eh," I replied, shrugging my shoulders. "I might not get it."

This met with an appreciative bwahaha from my dinner companions. But I'm sure we all know that--if and when the diagnosis comes--we will look back on my willful exposure and this conversation with shaken heads and regret. 

And another caveat--I know skin cancer is real and not funny. So no one who loves me and wears sunscreen or who has lost someone near and dear to this heinous disease needs to get their knickers all bunched up. Honestly. My tanorexia is totally under control. Yep, sure is. It is.