Flaming Toast

Precision. That is what made the extraordinarily large household run. I think. Because the center of my Mom’s world was my father, the routine of the household, too, usually centered on Papa. The breakfast regimen was no different. To an outsider just observing the chaos of getting everyone up and out each day, it would seem that the only thing that could possibly be routine in this morning procedure was that there was no routine. But to us,the busy, smoke filled, chaotic kitchen seemed entirely normal. The smell from the first pound of cooking bacon permeated through the air conditioning vents each morning and served as our alarm clock. As one round of siblings was roused and claimed one of the five bathrooms, Mom would be listening for the tell-tale signs that had become her signal to start Papa’s special breakfast. The signals did not vary and the timing on her part was always perfect. Eggs were put on exactly when the sound of the water from Papa’s shower was heard through the pipes in our big, loud, noisy two story house. I am not sure how that sound was so loud and distinguishable to my mom amidst all the confusion, but clear it was and it meant there was only minutes until Papa would walk into the kitchen. The eggs needed to be started precisely at this moment.

The type of eggs mom cooked for Papa may have differed over the years, but somehow the timing of cooking them always remained the same. My first recollection of the type of eggs cooked for Papa (and anyone else who wanted them) was bubble eggs. These were fried eggs cooked quite quickly and efficiently in the big iron skillet. Mom would break the eggs into hot bacon grease then splash the grease over and over the eggs with a spatula until the desired yolk consistency was obtained. When the egg white was a little crusted and the yolk was a little runnier than most of us younger ones liked it, the eggs were perfect for Papa. Someone in the brood dubbed them bubble eggs because of the big bubbles that would explode over the eggs while they were being splashed with grease. I think my mom liked cooking this type of eggs because the five little ones that were lined up at the bar watching this whole event take place were always momentarily entertained by the bubble development. (I never knew that “bubble eggs” was not a universally renowned term for fried eggs until much later.) When the cholesterol scare was brought to the forefront, the fried eggs were replaced with poached eggs. These eggs always looked pretty nil in texture, color, and taste when compared to the bubble eggs, but Papa’s health was the main concern and there would be no diminishing the drive that my mom had to keep Papa healthy. Somehow he managed to consume this type egg with the same zeal and pleasure as he did the bubble eggs. To cook the poached eggs, the iron skillet was replaced with a Teflon skillet. An egg was gently broken and placed into a small amount of water that was steaming in a covered pan. I continue to be baffled by the way the egg was always unfailingly ready to slide onto the plate precisely when Papa walked into the kitchen.

When the bread was popped into the toaster, we knew that Mom had heard the last of the signals. Who needed a clock when you could just listen for the unmistakable squeak of the big dresser drawer? This sound indicated that Papa had pulled the drawer open to reach for his starched white shirt; his last step in getting dressed. The toast would pop up out of the toaster and be placed onto the Mel-Mac plate alongside the perfectly cooked egg and bacon. It would be put at Papa’s designated spot at the bar exactly at the precise moment that he strolled into the kitchen. The place was set with what we knew as Papa’s preferred glass (the one whose thickness was just right), the fork that was always reserved specifically for him, and a perfectly folded blue napkin. The precision may have been unapparent to an outsider, but it was real.

Now, it may sound from this description that my father expected perfection for anything that concerned him. It may also seem that my Mom operated under a certain fear to achieve that expectation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Let me fill in the rest of the breakfast routine story. My mother was always the first one up in the mornings and as I look back I see that I just expected her to be in the kitchen. She would get out pans, start sack lunches, find socks, settle disputes, coax smiles, welcome the milkman, check on neighbors, sign notes, and hurry stragglers. This was all in addition to feeding the different shifts of people coming and going. Everyone always got fed. Everyone always got what they needed for the day. And, everyone almost always left the house happy. She did not do all of this alone, but she made it happen. The kitchen was by necessity a considerable room. It was big enough for someone to move in and take over cooking the bacon when needed. It was big enough for an older brother or sister to help the little ones crack the eggs before being scrambled. It was big enough for someone to be loading the dishwasher. It was big enough for someone to butter the bread that was crammed onto the tray to make tiger toast. It was big enough for several to finish their homework while they ate. It was big enough for someone to mop up the spilled milk. It was big enough to spread out all of the slices of bread that were being readied for lunches. And, it was big enough for no one to get burned as my mom would calmly reach into the oven and pull out the tray of toast that had erupted into flames. (This happened routinely if no one had been given the assignment to guard the toast from burning that morning.) She would open the back door; throw the flaming toast outside and without hesitation start buttering bread for another attempt. Everyone pitched in, but my mom ran the ship. When the sound of Papa’s shower was heard, we all knew the routine. Timing was everything. Gently, she would take over cooking his breakfast. If one of us insisted that we wanted to cook breakfast for Papa, she would let us. But she would keep an eye out and make sure it was perfect. This was her gift to him. His gift was to make her feel like it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. Ever. This was the way they started their day. Looking back, I see that this was the way they started ours. Amidst what most would consider chaos, there was the routine. The routine of spoiling the one you love most no matter what else was happening. Just because you wanted to. I look back on my marriage and I am grateful that the most important lessons I learned were not acquired in school, but were those discovered in a most precise manner around food.