For years, I’ve known that breakfast is my favorite meal, not because I feel the need to “start the day off right,” but because it was the meal of choice during my childhood. Every once in awhile, when I was a boy, my mother would announce that we were having breakfast for dinner: pancakes or waffles, bacon and eggs, omelets--you name it. I loved pancakes with butter, peanut butter, and maple syrup (you’ll have to try it before you can honestly tell me it’s disgusting), but my favorite breakfast was blueberry waffles, made in our huge, old, crusty waffle maker. We often ate the “right” meal at the wrong time, and it made a lasting impression on me, not to mention the impact of all the breakfasts we actually ate in the morning.
I think my waffle obsession was also partly fueled by semi-frequent visits with my cousins, who lived in the country. My aunt would fix us all a Bisquick recipe every morning. I don’t know how this tradition came about, but between coffeecake and waffles, we were always full. Looking back, waffles took precedence over coffee cake, and they were always hot, buttered, and covered in either maple or blueberry syrup. They also never ran out. My aunt would keep churning out waffles to feed us until we were stuffed, and usually end up throwing a plateful away, even though we had assured her we’d eat them all. We’d wash down the last bite with a drink from a huge glass of freezing cold milk, play in the forest behind their house or in their pool, then do it all over again the next day--exactly the same way.
If I wasn’t eating breakfast at someone’s home, my father was taking my family out for breakfast. He’d usually take us to Village Inn near Lloyd Center Mall in Portland, Oregon. True to form, I’d order pancakes, but there, they had a Lazy Susan for syrup (for lack of a better name). Maple, blueberry, boysenberry, blackberry, and coconut were alternately poured and eaten. You would be amazed at how long it takes to eat a short stack of buttermilk pancakes when every bite needs a different flavor of syrup on it. This was my meal; my mother ate German Pancakes with applesauce; my sister, pigs in a blanket; and my father, an omelet, usually smothered in chili, with hashbrowns and toast on the side. The breakfast my father continually chose was by no means healthy, and while it didn’t actually kill him, there is little chance that it prolonged his life. At about twelve or thirteen though, I didn’t have this knowledge, so I graduated from pancakes to the chili omelet. When I now go to the Village Inn, I have forsaken the omelet for a lateral move to “The Skillet.” A skillet consists of home fries covered in eggs (cooked how you like them) and your choice of toppings (meat, cheese, and vegetables [if you are really daring]) served in--you guessed it--a skillet. I can’t recommend this highly enough, especially if you have no cholesterol trouble.
I remember that we once took my cousins with us to Village Inn. They rarely ate breakfast out, and they were excited to try it. I’m not sure, but I think they ordered the same food they normally ate every morning. I do remember that they were so fascinated by the individual packages of jam and jelly, they decided to take some home with them. They slipped as many of the tiny containers into their pockets as they could, and on the ride home we all sat in back of our Ford Falcon station wagon, rough housing and playing around. By the time we made it home, the packages had exploded in their pockets, and they had to run around in their underwear while my mother washed their jeans, as they had each only brought one pair with them for the weekend.
Years later, after my parents divorced, my father and I would go to breakfast just so he could spend some time with me. All the breakfasts we’d shared in the past seemed to be the only link we retained now that we didn’t share the same house and schedule. Maybe the memories at Village Inn were too strong to escape, I don’t know, but we never again ate breakfast there. We now went to the Delta Park location of Elmer’s Pancake and Steakhouse, also in Portland. At Elmer’s, my father introduced me to another meal--the Nacho Omelet. This was a logical move; new restaurant, new meal. Besides, we had both mastered the chili omelet over the years. The Nacho Omelet is filled with seasoned ground beef, topped with nacho cheese sauce and some more beef, and fringed with tortilla chips. It is even less healthy than the chili omelet, but it is delicious. When I go to Elmer’s during breakfast hours (regrettably, they don’t have a twenty-four hour breakfast menu), I still order this meal because there are few things better in Oregon.
That’s just in Oregon, though. While I was living in Mississippi, I discovered what most people in the South already knew about: the Waffle House. I found my small piece of breakfast paradise in Columbus, MS, and it has yet to be beaten. The Waffle House serves the hearty food of Americana: pecan and plain waffles, steaks, pork chops, eggs, grits, toast, and hashbrowns--scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, and diced (trust me, order all these toppings). On the table is a Lazy Susan filled with three types of steak sauce, Tabasco, and syrup sitting next to an overstuffed napkin holder, which you’ll need. During the two years I spent in MS, I often sat there on weekend mornings, talking with friends in the bright yellow booths, listening to the local country music station on the radio, and drinking delicious coffee served by the friendliest waitress in the world--named “Smiley,” no less.
I have continued to pursue breakfast at all times--good breakfast that is. I’ll order breakfast twenty-four hours a day, every day, if given the chance, I love it so much. I have endeavored to pass my love of this meal on to the members my family who have either forgotten or never possessed the same feelings I have.
When my mother and I traveled through the American Southeast together, I stopped at so many Waffle Houses, she finally requested a different restaurant for breakfast. It is hard to forsake an old favorite when there is a Waffle House in almost every city, just off the exit of almost every major highway, but I did. Years later, while driving cross-country with my wife and sister-in-law, I was on constant alert for a Waffle House, but as we drove from Washington D.C. through Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois, I couldn’t find a single one. State by state, I was gripped by the fear that we were on the only route in the entire USA to have not a single Waffle House, but we finally found one in Missouri.
As we walked in, I was enveloped by the same smells I remembered, and as we were led to a booth, I grew even hungrier than I had been in the car. I ordered steak, eggs, hashbrowns, toast, and coffee, my favorite meal on their extensive menu.
My wife and sister-in-law ordered lunch. Go figure.
Some people just aren’t ready to embrace breakfast as wholeheartedly as I always do. I’ll keep trying to reach them though--it’s my mission.
