Sunday Morning Breakfast
Crisp morning air, bright sun, and a breeze wafting in off of Lake Superior. Steinway the cat winding himself about my ankles. Sunday morning on a long weekend.
Culpeper’s lemonade. I love the smell of fresh cut lemons and limes. Ten minutes slicing and squeezing. The ice water and crushed ice from a spring on the Canadian shield, many miles from the nearest people. Some Bajan sugar to balance the tartness, some whisking to reduce the acidic pulp, and then let it sit to smooth out the flavour.
Basmati rice straight out of the steamer, then fried up with onion, garlic, crushed black pepper, and just a hint of all-spice. On top of the bed of rice are fried eggs, easy-over, from range hens on the outskirts of town. A few slices of spring onion to garnish, lightly braised to bring out the sweetness.
A small loaf of bread, fresh out of the bread machine, torn into hunks, lightly brushed with melted butter, and placed on a platter of sugar and cinnamon.
Then out the kitchen hatch onto the sun deck, looking down over the neighbourhood. A comfortable chair, Thurman’s “Life of Colette” to read, and a fine Sunday morning breakfast to savour my way through.