Breakfast with Enid and Kurt

BOILING STONES
(Things a man can do in the kitchen)
© September 13, 2009
By: George O. Martin, Jr.

Breakfast with Enid and Kurt

We went away for a few days. It was necessary. In fact it was very necessary. Our children made it so. No, they didn’t do anything wrong; they didn’t get into an argument and beat one another; they didn’t get in trouble with the law and get hauled off to jail. None of those simple things happened. What caused our need to vacate the premises was the fact that they simply acted like themselves.
The youngest acted like a fourteen year old, the middle child acted like a seventeen year old, and the oldest acted like she was twenty-one. They acted that way because they really are those particular ages; and they are perfectly normal for their ages.
But normalcy brings with it certain characteristics which are not always agreeable in civilized society. You probably know that fourteen year olds become monosyllabic, reclusive, sullen, and clueless. Seventeen year olds become garrulous, hyper-intelligent, self-engrossed, and clueless. Twenty-one year olds become flighty, demanding, only moderately organized, and clueless. Parenting these three became as anxiety provoking and unrewarding as sweeping the tide away from the beach. We found it necessary to go away for a few days, and we did.
Fortunately we had a good excuse. There was to be a gathering of Poets in another Kansas town and I was invited to read some of my work to them. These people gather once a year someplace, and the camaraderie and work that is shared is both uplifting and entertaining.
Most of them made advanced reservations to stay at a Bed and Breakfast Inn in that town. In fact so many made the advanced reservations that when we finally got around to calling all the rooms were filled. We were rather disappointed. But Kurt, one of the owners, said the nicest thing, “We don’t have a room available, but come and eat with us, we would love to have you at our table, and Enid always prepares plenty of food.” We had eaten Enid’s cooking before and that was good news indeed. We booked ourselves into another Motel, down the road, and packed our bags. I also went to the garden and packed a bag of yellow squash, and another of large bell like peppers. I knew Enid liked fresh produce.
The trip to the other town was a delight. I actually had almost two hours in which to talk to my lady without one of the kids breaking into the conversation asking us to solve a problem, settle an argument, or find something that was right in front of their noses. Our sentences became longer; our ponderings more profound, and several times we heard ourselves talking like adults, in full and complete sentences. It was thrilling!
We arrived at the motel down the road, checked in, left our bags and headed for the B&B. I wanted to get the garden vegetables to Enid right away. She was very pleased to receive them, and invited us to breakfast in the morning. We said we would be there and went to attend other business.
In the morning we went back for breakfast. The poets straggled down the oaken stairs, and we greeted each other over coffee and tea. We have been getting together like thins for twenty-one years, so it was like a family reunion. Chatter started, and talk ensued as the coffee was enjoyed; but then the breakfast bowls were brought in. In them were the fresh garden squash I had offered the night before.
From the wonderful taste I could tell Enid had chopped the squash into small pieces and sautéed them in oil and butter. When tender and slightly browned, she added chopped white onion, and chopped boiled potatoes. When these were all stirred together and heated through she had added eggs and scrambled them in the same pan. A touch of salt, pepper, garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary, and thyme had been added also; just a touch of each. Summer squash for breakfast scrambled with eggs is delicious. After we cleaned our plates of the second helpings, and gotten up to leave, Kurt said, “Be sure to be here tomorrow. We have another special treat for your breakfast.”
We were there on time the next morning. Again there were straggling poets, still full of metaphor, needing coffee and conversation to start the day. We were welcomed. This time the whole frying pan was brought to the table. In it were the peppers we had given to Enid. They had been diced with an equal amount of onions, and tomatoes, and cooked down until the onions were transparent and the tomatoes were juicy. Into that mix Enid had broken a dozen eggs and allowed them to poach. Salt, pepper, and garlic had been added. Two eggs were served onto a heated white tortilla and the flavor of the cooked vegetable mix was wonderful.
We are home now, but I am willing to drive to that other town again for breakfast tomorrow with Enid and Kurt once again.