Image by Hjem via Flickr
Sunday morning. House full of kids. Sleeping in not an option.
I’m standing at the counter getting the coffee going. At our house this means fill the hot water pot and get it started—but not if someone’s running the microwave because that will trip the breaker.
Grind two batches of coffee beans. Put them in our very cool stainless steel French press purchased online after the glass one broke, as they always, always do. (Why did someone invent an item made of glass into which you were expected to pour boiling water and then apply force?) Wait four minutes. Enjoy.
Eldest Daughter examines refrigerator contents and issues a report. “Waffles, a couple of pancakes, soup, and soup.”
Sweet Husband says, “Why don’t you get out the waffles and pancakes?”
I mutter under my breath, “None of those sound like hash browns.”
For the record, Sweet Husband makes the most amazing hash browns. Freshly grated by hand, fried with plenty of oil so they don’t stick, a few chopped onions on top.
Consumed with ketchup and an egg on the side, they are my favorite, favorite breakfast. So favorite that we had to cut back the number of mornings he prepares this treat because the numbers on the scale seemed to be responding in an odd fashion.
Eldest Daughter shares my fondness for Sweet Husband’s cooking skills. In her case she wants something they nicknamed a ninja: hash browns with some cheddar on top, cooked so the cheese is melted and crispy-licious.
She chuckles at my remark. Sweet Husband asks what I said.
“She said, ‘None of those sound like hash browns,’” Eldest Daughter reports. “I agree.”
“Ah,” he says, working away at his computer.
Also for the record, Sweet Husband is the breakfast cook at our house. Every morning I arise and shower. He brings me a cup of coffee while I’m putting on my make-up, and returns to the kitchen where he is whipping up oatmeal, eggs and toast, or The Famous Sweet Husband Hash Browns (about twice a week, and definitely at least once on weekends).
I sometimes make muffins, coffee cake (rarely), and once in a while I might do a big pan of eggs with a bunch of stuff in them--mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, etc. Occasionally I take a stab at the hash browns but mine are definitely not as good as his.
Sweet Husband has been working on a survey for his business and he’s currently looking at the results.
“Honey, survey results indicate that hash browns would be a very popular item,” I announce.
Eldest Daughter and I stand close to him, grinning ear to ear.
“These results are skewed!” he exclaims. “I don’t remember being asked.”
“You’re a non-respondent,” I answer. “This is science. Two out of every three people surveyed say hash browns!”
“Use your kisses!” Eldest Daughter urges.
Sweet Husband chuckles and stands up. I wrap my arms around him—I’m wearing the incredibly soft, cuddly robe he gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago, and I’m very huggable. I smother him in kisses.
“This is unfair. This is oppressive,” he fake-protests.
“I’m a-pressing up against you!” I respond.
“Oh, that’s cute!” Eldest Daughter says (fortunately—the other response might have been a gagging noise).
More kisses, a few cuddly hugs.
I can smell hash browns now.