the subject already?”
“Whatever you say, Dave. Just trying to do you a favour. All this chit-chat’s making me hungry, anyway. How does eggs, bacon, and toast, all washed down with champagne and O.J. sound to you, eh?”
“Excellent!”
“Well, whip it up, man.” He snaps the paper open in front of his face. From behind the rustling pages, he says: “Make yourself useful for a change. I like my bacon crispy, but not too crispy. Know what I mean?”
I like to cook. It’s one of the great arts, I think; it roots you in the earth; in the fruits and vegetables and meats and grains and tubers of Mother Nature. It’s also a great way to get girls. Frankly, I don’t understand any bachelor who doesn’t cook. Any cheeseball can take a woman to a restaurant, but when you make a meal for a woman: a) she’s impressed by your competence and self-reliance; b) you control the music and atmosphere; c) it’s cheaper; d) she’s
already in your apartment
. If anything’s going to happen, there’s no will-she-won’t-she tango at the doorstep.
Old lady Lawson kept a great kitchen, too. Copper pots, strings of garlic and drying herbs, a huge old gas range, food-crammed fridge. I rooted around and found all the ingredients for my famous apple-and-Brie omelette. An easy dish — just fry apple wedges in a little butter, fold them in with the Brie when the time comes — but it always makes a big impressionon your breakfast guests. I tossed some bacon in a pan, whipped out the bread, and got cracking on the eggs.
First things first, though: the first step in making any meal, I feel, is to have a nice stiff drink or two. It loosens you up, gets the creative juices flowing. For me, this applies to breakfast, too, though I realize for some it’s still a bit early in the day. I whipped up a couple of champer-and-O.J.s, brought one out to Max, and received a grunt of thanks for my efforts.
The smell of bacon cooking — Nature’s alarm clock — lured the girls from their cozy quilts. They came down in their nightgowns, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. Need I mention, at this point, that Les looked more fetching than ever? I don’t think so. I believe it’s clear by now why Les was put on this earth: to torture me, and make me suffer, while God and Beelzebub, in a rare collaboration, watch the whole show on their celestial/ infernal couch with their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing till the tears roll down their cheeks.
“Here’s some nice fresh coffee,” I said. “Bacon and eggs coming up in a few minutes.”
“You seem pretty chipper this morning,” Sam said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Actually, I hardly slept at all.”
“Why? What was the matter?”
“Nothing. I was reading, that’s all.”
This seemed to strike them both as a novel idea.
“Wow, reading usually puts me straight to sleep,” Sam said.
“Well, I was pretty into this book.”
“What was it?” Les asks.
“Hunger
, by Knut Hamsun. I found it in your Dad’s bookcase.”
“Was it good?”
“I thought it was amazing.”
“What’s it about?”
“The torments of a starving writer. He barely earns enough to eat, he’s always pawning things, sometimes he has to suck on a wood chip to convince his stomach he’s had something to eat.”
Les snickered. “Sounds familiar, Dave.”
“Why doesn’t he get a job?” Sam asks.
“Well, as Isaac Bashevis Singer says in the introduction, he starves out of spiritual necessity, that he is one of those who ‘must rise above their fellow creatures or perish.’”
Sam raises a sceptical eyebrow.
“Nutty.”
“
I’m hungry
,” Les says.
Breakfast was an excellent meal, if I do say so myself. We ate outside, on the verandah. Everyone read sections of the paper, so there wasn’t much conversation, just pass this, pass that, compliments to the chef. Which is as it should be. Breakfast is no time to try to be witty or interesting, and my three friends understood that,
“Whatever you say, Dave. Just trying to do you a favour. All this chit-chat’s making me hungry, anyway. How does eggs, bacon, and toast, all washed down with champagne and O.J. sound to you, eh?”
“Excellent!”
“Well, whip it up, man.” He snaps the paper open in front of his face. From behind the rustling pages, he says: “Make yourself useful for a change. I like my bacon crispy, but not too crispy. Know what I mean?”
I like to cook. It’s one of the great arts, I think; it roots you in the earth; in the fruits and vegetables and meats and grains and tubers of Mother Nature. It’s also a great way to get girls. Frankly, I don’t understand any bachelor who doesn’t cook. Any cheeseball can take a woman to a restaurant, but when you make a meal for a woman: a) she’s impressed by your competence and self-reliance; b) you control the music and atmosphere; c) it’s cheaper; d) she’s
already in your apartment
. If anything’s going to happen, there’s no will-she-won’t-she tango at the doorstep.
Old lady Lawson kept a great kitchen, too. Copper pots, strings of garlic and drying herbs, a huge old gas range, food-crammed fridge. I rooted around and found all the ingredients for my famous apple-and-Brie omelette. An easy dish — just fry apple wedges in a little butter, fold them in with the Brie when the time comes — but it always makes a big impressionon your breakfast guests. I tossed some bacon in a pan, whipped out the bread, and got cracking on the eggs.
First things first, though: the first step in making any meal, I feel, is to have a nice stiff drink or two. It loosens you up, gets the creative juices flowing. For me, this applies to breakfast, too, though I realize for some it’s still a bit early in the day. I whipped up a couple of champer-and-O.J.s, brought one out to Max, and received a grunt of thanks for my efforts.
The smell of bacon cooking — Nature’s alarm clock — lured the girls from their cozy quilts. They came down in their nightgowns, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. Need I mention, at this point, that Les looked more fetching than ever? I don’t think so. I believe it’s clear by now why Les was put on this earth: to torture me, and make me suffer, while God and Beelzebub, in a rare collaboration, watch the whole show on their celestial/ infernal couch with their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing till the tears roll down their cheeks.
“Here’s some nice fresh coffee,” I said. “Bacon and eggs coming up in a few minutes.”
“You seem pretty chipper this morning,” Sam said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Actually, I hardly slept at all.”
“Why? What was the matter?”
“Nothing. I was reading, that’s all.”
This seemed to strike them both as a novel idea.
“Wow, reading usually puts me straight to sleep,” Sam said.
“Well, I was pretty into this book.”
“What was it?” Les asks.
“Hunger
, by Knut Hamsun. I found it in your Dad’s bookcase.”
“Was it good?”
“I thought it was amazing.”
“What’s it about?”
“The torments of a starving writer. He barely earns enough to eat, he’s always pawning things, sometimes he has to suck on a wood chip to convince his stomach he’s had something to eat.”
Les snickered. “Sounds familiar, Dave.”
“Why doesn’t he get a job?” Sam asks.
“Well, as Isaac Bashevis Singer says in the introduction, he starves out of spiritual necessity, that he is one of those who ‘must rise above their fellow creatures or perish.’”
Sam raises a sceptical eyebrow.
“Nutty.”
“
I’m hungry
,” Les says.
Breakfast was an excellent meal, if I do say so myself. We ate outside, on the verandah. Everyone read sections of the paper, so there wasn’t much conversation, just pass this, pass that, compliments to the chef. Which is as it should be. Breakfast is no time to try to be witty or interesting, and my three friends understood that,
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