November 18, 2017

charred breakfast

My first batch of breakfast sandwiches should've gone like this:  eggs, milk, and chopped up veggies baked in a 9 x 13 pan for 30 minutes at @350.  Once the eggs were cut into squares, I would place the square, a slice of lunch meat, turkey bacon, and a slice of cheese on a toasted English muffin.  Then I planned to wrap the sandwich in parchment paper, mark what combination I made, and stuff it in a Ziploc bag.  I would repeat the entire process but leave off the bread and wrap the lonely looking, little gluten free arrangements up for my celiac self in a Ziploc bag labeled GF.  

The basement kitchen messed with my plan a little.
Yes, those black disks were English muffins before I destroyed them.  But don't those eggs look yummy?
I stuck the English muffins in the oven to broil.  That's what the recipe instructed me to do. Fun fact #2:  I am not one to improvise while cooking or baking.  A little improvisation with say a toaster might have slowed down this overall process but would've saved the bread from scorch city. 

Ironically I was upstairs checking the computer to see how long the recipe suggested that I broil these bad boys.  I think I got distracted.  Can you guess, I don't use the broiler function much? 

I struggle to cook in the basement, because much of life is happening upstairs.  I jog upstairs to deal with laundry, or check something on the computer, or holler at a few kids and I forget about the basement side of life.  That's exactly what happened here.  I guess there is a reason that the kitchen is typically the central hub of the house.  Oh, how I miss mine.

I should've snapped a picture of the seriously thick smoke when I walked back downstairs, so I could share it with you.  I guess I was too focused on the fact that the entire house was going to burn down. 

A few minutes later the head of the construction crew came down into the basement.  This was early on in the kitchen project, and he was working upstairs with the electrician.  He smelled the smoke and thought that they were responsible. 

His native tongue is Polish, and he speaks with a thick accent.  He called out to me thru the smoke, 'Ernie, is that your fault?' 

'Yes, this is my fault,' I admitted.  Turns out he was asking me if it was my food, not my fault.  Once he enunciated a bit better, I told him:  'My food AND my fault.'

Don't worry - I was bound and determined to make these damn sandwiches.  Good thing English muffins were on sale.  

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