Time
and Time Again Part 3
By
Rex Hurst
Now that he was relatively clean, Schultz descended to the first
floor and graced the kitchen with his presence. There was no applause. His wife
and children were still fast asleep. But had they been in the room, Schultz
knew they would appreciate his being there. Demonstrating it with smiles, if
not laurels and applause. It was time to start breakfast.
His wife could bellow about Schultz being late to the office, but
he would not be deterred from this morning ritual. A decent breakfast was
the only way to start a day properly. Because missing the morning meal would
put him off on the wrong foot, and from previous experience that foot would
eventually get stuck right in Schultz’s big mouth, causing much pain and
embarrassment all around. It was better to take a few minutes and fry up some
eggs.
He didn’t start with chicken embryos though. Like many people
Schultz was near-paralytic until after that morning cup of coffee went searing
down his throat. Sure, he could do basic things like wash himself and dress,
but advanced skills like counting or saying “Good Morning” were beyond his
power until the java made its magic.
The problem now lay in what kind to make. Back in the bachelor
days, Schultz would just toss a handful of instant crystals into some lukewarm
water and chug it down on the way out. His wife had cultivated in him a love
for the finer blends. He opened the honest straw bag of fair-trade coffee,
gathered by the meekest of Guatemalan peons, and lovingly tossed into sacks.
The aroma of the beans themselves nearly knocked him out.
He dumped the beans into an automatic grinder and reduced them to
powder, filling the whole room with its intoxicating funk. He ran his fingers
through the blend, making sure all the beans had been uniformly ground down.
Schultz then produced a French press and popped the coffee into the top. The
perfect cup was made from a medium grind. Very coarse grinds clogged the
press’s filter, while very fine grinds passed through the filter, muddying the
results. He heated some hot water, added it to the pot, waited for them to mix,
then slowly pressed the plunger down, exerting steady pressure. Another minute
and he took a sip.
Perfecto.
Folgers just couldn’t compete.
With the coffee pressed and quaffed, Schultz could turn to
the meat of the meal, in this case, it would be eggs and pancakes. These things
were important and each needed to be taken in turn. One may think that the
preparation of eggs was a simple matter. Crack the shell and dump it into the
pan. That might be all well and good for the plebs, with their lowest common
denominator taste buds. But Mathew Schultz had higher aspirations and a more
exclusive palate.
One could not
simply scramble the eggs. They must be pampered, fluffed, and anointed
with specific oils. One could simply not do proper scrambled eggs in less than
twenty minutes. Schultz took four eggs and emptied them into a porcelain bowl.
A titanium whisk was produced and he proceeded to beat the eggs, and beat them,
and beat them until the yolks and white combined. He paused for a moment to add
generous portions of salt and pepper to the mixture, then beat them into the
cream.
“You’re gonna be
late,” came bellowing down through the heating vents.
Not at all. Not
at all. Any decent boss would understand the importance of eggs and breakfast.
Schultz was sure of it.
The burner was
set to medium heat. He let the non-stick skillet lay on the blue flame for a
minute before adding two tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil. He let it
simmer for a moment, before turning the heat down, and dumping the eggs into
the skillet.
“Scrumdiliumptious!”
He pawed at the
mixture with a wooden spoon, slowly teasing it around and around. At first it
seemed nothing of note was happening. Runny eggs in a small skillet. Then
little by little, over the precious minutes, the eggs began to form curds. With
ruthless efficiency, Schultz broken them up as they form, crushing big curds
into smaller curds, until the skillet was nothing but a mass of edible, squishy
curds.
He yanked the
skillet from the stove and slid the mass onto a plate. A forkful was stuffed
into his mouth. It was as Schultz expected.
Perfection again.
You’re gonna be late,” came again and again from upstairs.
Schultz ignored the bellows of his porcine wife. Even though he knew she was
probably right, coffee and eggs simply are not a proper breakfast. More was
needed. Specifically starch. To fill him up and keep the body regular. He knew
no better way to add starch to his breakfast fete than - PANCAKES!
Like a child again,
he ripped open the cupboards, gathering bowls and powders. Then tragedy struck.
What was this? What was this? No flour! Gods, above. What was he to do? Not
wallow in self-pity is what? He kicked himself in the tucas. If there was no
flour at hand, he’d simply make pancakes without it.
What did he have?
A package of
instant oatmeal, red beets, yogurt, applesauce, and some other generic baking
items. Guess it would have to do. Nothing would beat Schultz out of a damn fine
breakfast of his own choosing.
He dumped the
oatmeal, some baking soda, and a handful of salt into a blender, then ground it
down into a fine powder. He poured it all into an alabaster bowl, then set it
aside. After cleaning the blender, he tossed everything else into it. Two eggs,
a half cup of strawberry yogurt, some spoonful’s of vanilla extract - to make
the medicine go down - a sliced up red beet, three globs of applesauce, and the
dregs of the vegetable oil bottle. Then whirled it all around until it was all
an ugly red paste.
Schultz heated up
another non-stick pan and let the paste flow, until it nearly covered the pan's
surface. He cooked until small bubbles formed the pancake’s top. Then he
flipped it over and cooked the other side. In the past, he’d always tried to do
that trick where one tosses a flapjack in the air and catches it flip-side in
the pan. It always ended with disastrous results and splattered hot batter over
everything and everyone.
He resisted the
urge this time.
