Sunday Breakfast

The unmistakable sound of bacon frying in a heavy black iron skillet. Not the fast pop pop and sizzle sounds of bacon a blaze while cooking on high, but bacon on a slow deliberate flame, somewhere between medium and low on a old gas stove. Bacon that while cooking sounds like a soft steady spring rain.



The sound of an old coffee pot, the gurgle and clanking sounds of fresh coffee brewing compliments the sound of bacon being cooked. Add the sudden zip and pop of an old metal toaster that never seems to toast the bread to perfection no matter how you set the dial and you have all the proper sounds that signal the preparation of breakfast is moving along at a comfortable pace.

This Sunday morning there is no rush, but the sky has cleared after what seems like a week of rain and there is work to be done, yet for now the only concern is to turn the eggs without breaking the yokes. I like mine over easy if I'm successful, otherwise I'll settle for scrambled. The margin for error in egg turning is very small and I have come to accept my inadequacies and lack of a steady hand required for proper and successful egg turning in a cast iron skillet.

I opened the french doors on the deck about 6 AM and the sounds of natures wildlife have filled my kitchen non stop. I often trade the intrusion of insects and rain for the sounds of the outdoors. I like a quiet breakfast, but there is nothing quiet about a Carolina Low Country morning, as nature comes alive with joyous songs of a new spring day.

My breakfast is without loud buzzers or the electronic dings of modern appliances and heaven forbid the static noise of morning news shows spiked with the jarring assaults of car dealer commercials that attack my quiet sanctuary.

Breakfast on Sunday is a reward for most days when breakfast is skipped or breakfast that is really a business meeting in disguise.

Hotel breakfasts are only acceptable if they are before 6:30 AM, before the crowds of tourists invade the quiet, or served in your room at the Four Seasons, anytime.

But the best breakfast is still served at home, where cooking a few extra few slices of bacon is always a good idea since a certain uninvited Labrador Retriever named Madison tends to show up once the smell of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee fills the morning air.

Now that all the tasks that make breakfast are done there is just one question left:

Would you like some scrambled eggs with your bacon Madison?

Breakfast

A cool rain has come to Charleston this morning. The forecast that was calling for strong winds and thunderstorms has been down graded to a steady rain, perhaps the first of many spring showers to come.

Now in early morning darkness Charleston has slowly begun to waken, and traffic is still sparse for today is Presidents day. Banks are closed as is the Post Office and many government offices but everything else is up and running including the sprinklers at the Coastal Carolina Savings Bank despite the steady rain.

I’ve always found sprinklers running in the rain one of mankind’s oddest achievements, like stoplights that show red for a painfully long time without another car in sight.

Long before sprinkler systems and traffic lights a plenty, a day of steady Low Country rain was a day off from work in the fields. Rainy days meant a time to catch up on some tractor maintenance or pull that starter off the pickup and fix the front door that has been sticking since fall.

A Monday rain was even better since week long projects had yet to be started and some things could wait. Years ago breakfast on a farm was an amazing adventure and many times I witnessed this daily occurrence that was normal to my farm raised cousins.

By 5:30 a half a dozen pick-up trucks were parked in the yard of the main farm house. As headlights illuminated the down pour, rain coats dashed up the gravel drive and were left in a red and yellow pile of dripping wetness just outside the back door that was well lit by a single light under the covered porch.

As best I could tell half of the young men who dripped their way into the large farm house kitchen were true family the other half hired farms hands who might as well been adopted, as each gave my great aunt a quick good morning kiss on the cheek before sitting down to breakfast while outside the rain continued.

Of course this event happened on sunny mornings as well since tradition held that my great aunt fixed breakfast at the Coleman Farm every morning. Sons who lived down the road and next door came as did the hired help; all were treated like family, so for me it was sometimes hard to tell who was who.



Sausage, bacon, grits, scrambled eggs, coffee, biscuits and toast made the rounds. As a chair was pushed back and an empty plate removed, someone else would quickly fill the void. Most who departed did so with coffee in hand and a warm sausage biscuit wrapped in a paper napkin in the pocket, which went a long way to make working in the rain nearly enjoyable.

One by one or in pairs they left heading out the door after a quick hug from my great aunt, grabing their rain coat and then vanishing into the pre dawn darkness. The sounds of bacon frying subsided and rain came harder as the last of the pickup lights twisted around the drive and down the road, at just after six in the morning, signaling the end to one of mankind’s greatest inventions, breakfast.