Breakfast & Other Traps

I was never one to like or eat breakfast. Waking up, rolling out of bed and deciding the first thing you wanted to eat in the morning was smelly eggs (washed down with acidic coffee) just seemed plain odd to me. Not to mention the raving everyone did about bacon- which as a child I likened in both look and taste to shoe leather- confused the crap out of me. I was always a supper person, preferring later in the day meals to starting the morning off 'right'.

Although the food items associated both breakfast and supper could be broken down into the same basic categories (breads, meat, pastry, what have you) I believed everything was better after 6pm. Although toast was dry and boring, dinner rolls were soft and buttery. Where bacon was chewy and musty, a juicy steak made my mouth water. Instead of pancakes dripping with maple syrup, I preferred cake topped with a thick layer of frosting.

Of course this way of thinking might also have stemmed from my family's routine and values. Everyone woke at different times, grabbing what they could as they headed out the door in the morning. My brother and dad were morning people and able to spring out of bed when the alarm went off, without hitting snooze, like a couple of psychopaths. Giving themselves time to brew a pot of coffee, fry a quick helping of ham and eggs, and make small talk with each other before they left in the morning. Whereas my mother and I were what you'd call reasonable, and much preferred to stay cocooned under a mountain of heavy blankets until the last possible minute. I barely had my clothes on as I would sprint out the door to catch the bus or, in later years, as I sped through community safety zones in my dad's old pick-up to get to homeroom before the bell rang. No time or desire for pleasantries. Starting the day with an empty stomach and the hum of adrenaline that comes from playing self inflicted 'beat the clock' every morning.

But supper was different. Every single evening, my mother would cook a full and usually traditional meal to end the day. Meat, potatoes and a obligatory vegetable. Bread and butter on the side. Dessert available in the form of Jos Louis or strawberry flakeys in the pantry cupboard. And, unlike in the mornings, we would always eat supper together as a family. One meal, with everyone sitting down at the kitchen table to eat and talk about their respective days. Although the TV might have been on low in the background, this time was reserved for us as a family. You wouldn't just eat meatloaf and mashed potatoes. You would take a bite and then wildly brandish your fork in the air, regaling everyone with how the soccer ball Michael kicked in gym narrowly missed the teacher's head, but you secretly wished it had of connected.

Even on the nights when my dad would work late we would make him a plate of dinner, putting it in the oven to keep it warm. Ensuring we saved him the best bits, like a corner piece of lasagna with the crispiest cheese around the edges. And when he arrived home at the end of his long day, we'd all gather around or near the table while he ate to catch him up on the day's events. I didn't realize how lucky I was at the time to have this. Everyone brought together once per day. I thought all families had a variation of this. How else could it be done? How else could you call yourselves a family if you didn't sit across the table from each other once per day and intentionally push their buttons until the veins in their foreheads started to pulse?

But somewhere along the line, as with most things I thought I knew, my thoughts about breakfast changed. At this moment in time I think I'd take a full English brekky over a steak dinner any day. I think this most likely comes from Scott and I building our own routines and daily life with each other.

Scott, like my dad and brother, is a psychopath. Able to pop out of bed thirty seconds before his alarm goes off without giving it any thought. He enjoys taking his time and sipping his smoothie at the kitchen table in the morning, instead of pouring it into a travel mug as he heads out the door. He takes Indi for their 25 minute walk in the early hours before the sun comes up, usually with two or three barn cats meandering along with them. Like the male version of Snow White, animals and small humans are attracted to Scott in a curious way. It's probably his steady calmness that attracts them. You can't help but feel that everything is going to be okay when he is in the room, and children along with animals are drawn to this like a moth to a flame.

In fact, Scott rarely gets to do anything by himself outside. The animals follow him around like a troop leader, fascinated by his actions and wondering what he might do next. I often wonder if he feels like guru or cult leader, being followed by a group of misfits looking for affection and reassuring gestures. When he sweeps the deck the cats lazily weave between his feet. He changes the oil in my car, and the dog sits watch beside him on the garage floor while a cat smacks at shiny used oil in the drain pan. It's how I gauge the level of danger, stupidity or entertainment in whatever might be happening out in my yard. If the animals are scattered around the general area Scott is in, I know that I'm likely not missing anything too interesting. But when they are grouped together, or worse sitting at attention watching Scott like a hawk, I know that shit is likely about to go down.

When we got home on Boxing Day, after visiting family for three days over Christmas, there was a lot to get done. The driveway was completely blown in, with drifts sweeping over the hood of my Rav 4 as Scott 'gave errr' up the lane. There was no walk way to the house, and we waded through waist deep snow to get to the door. Once inside we divided up the tasks. Scott would go outside and start clearing snow while I unpacked, started a fire and prepped some dinner for us. Once he was garbed up in snow pants, ear flap hat and gloves, Scott went outside and I got to work. I reasoned that it was still the holidays and after 3pm, so I started my chores with the most important step of all- pouring myself a drink. Everything seems more luxurious and nuanced with a drink in hand, and I flitted around the house sipping on my blood orange gin and soda (don't knock it until you've tried it) while loading the washing machine and chopping vegetables.

From my perch at the kitchen island I could see the walkway and garage out of the window. I took a sip and pondered why there had been no progress with moving the snow. After meandering closer to the window and taking another sip of my drink, I noticed all seven barn cats and our dog sitting at attention (ears perked up, butts flat on the ground, tails straight up in the air and heads tilted quizzically to the side) in the gap between the garage and woodshed. A definite sign that some shit was about to go down. Suddenly Scott appeared from between the buildings and walked towards the garage man door. He jiggled the handle and put his hands on his hips. The cats gathered around his feet and Scott tried the door again, this time putting his shoulder into it. The door didn't open. He trudged through knee deep snow to his pick up and began rifling through the centre console, searching reverently for something. I continued sipping my gin from the warm kitchen, thinking how lucky I was to get a drink and a show before dinner. Scott trudged back to the garage and began trying several different keys in the lock. This went on for about five minutes, and just when I was thinking I'd like to change the channel, he abruptly kicked the door (the universal sign for 'fuck this shit') and started walking towards the house.

Not wanting to answer loaded questions like why I hadn't come out to help, I raced back to the kitchen island and began chopping onions like I wasn't just watching him like a primetime soap opera. I used my best, "How's it going out there honey?" When he walked into the house looking exasperated, leaving his fan club of kitties just outside the door.

"The garage door is locked and the opener isn't working." He said without amusement.

"You don't say," I said in my best I wasn't just watching you voice, "Did you try unlocking the door with a key?"

Scott pulled the handful of keys I had just watched him try in the door out of his pocket and threw them on the table as he marched past it. "I can't find the damn key."

I took a long sip of my drink, "Well damn. What are you going to do next?"

He emerged from around the corner with a drill he had pilfered from my I Am Woman Hear Me Roar closet of tools and headed for the door, "I'm going through the window."

If you've never been to my house, I will forgive your ignorance to just how ridiculous this sounded to me. The garage windows were six feet off the ground, boarded up at the bottom where the screens had been pulled apart by the cats. They were also far too small to think any full grown man would be able to climb through them. Let alone my broad shouldered specimen of a husband.

He didn't wait for me to respond and the door slammed behind him as he trudged back outside. I took another sip of gin while the image of Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit's front door hole came to mind. I made the decision that I should help, or at very least be there to take pictures when this plan went awry. I went to the cupboard and grabbed a travel mug, pouring my drink into it and headed for the door myself. I was just pulling on my hat and mitts when I heard Scott yelling, "Son of a bitch!"

I shoved my feet into my boots and ran outside, having to muscle my way through the crowd of animals that had gathered between the garage and woodshed where the windows were located and the litany of cursing was coming from. Once I had made my way through the animals I began assessing the situation. Two snow pant clad legs were sticking out of the window, and the fingertips of a black glove were gripping the lower window sill from inside the garage, "GODDAMIT!"

Scott couldn't get a ladder between the woodshed and garage because of the snowdrift that was almost as high off the ground as the windows. So after unscrewing the boards from the lower half of the window, he jumped and wriggled his way so his body was half in and half out of the window. He was just about to get himself braced on the engine jack stored on the back wall to get leverage to get the rest of his body in the window, when the cats decided to help. He felt one jump and grab onto one of his legs. While he started to kick his leg to get the cat to jump off, another climbed through the window and down onto his shoulders, throwing off his balance. He lost his grip on the motor jack, and slid further through the window and his snow pants caught on a nail in the wall. He was now suspended and stuck upside down.

"You good babe?" I asked, trying to keep the laughter from my voice.

"Oh ya. Just dandy. Never bloody better."

In between chortles, I asked what I could do to help.

"Just grab on to my boots and shove hard. My pants are stuck on a nail."

I began shoving on his boots, which was surprisingly difficult to do with one hand. I took a sip of my drink from the travel mug I had brought out with me, and was considering needing to put it down in order to give Scott's boots a good and proper shove when I heard the rip of his snow pants.

Scott popped up into view, having been freed from the garage wall, and headed towards the front of the garage. By the time I got around to the front, the door was open and Scott emerged red faced, but triumphant. "Thank you, I guess we need to get-- Did you bring a drink out with you?"

"Ummmm-" I said, unsure if honestly was the best policy in this situation.

"Did you honestly hear me yell, and your first thought was, I better bring my drink?"

"To be fair, I already had the drink in the travel mug before you started yelling. You want some?" I asked reaching the tumbler in his direction.

He looked at me bewildered, trying to decide if this was a hill he wanted to die on or not. Something I think he does far more often than I am aware of. Finally, he sighed and took the tumbler. "You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a peck on the cheek, "Absolutely."