Food and Comfort

     I grew up in a family that was on the generous end of comforting. Both my mom and dad had no trouble expressing their affection and, in hindsight, neither did my older brother.  Granted, it wasn't always "unicorns and rainbows" but conflict was something that was quickly a memory (of course I am excluding my teenage years, I was a downright turd during that time).  But one thing that I found routinely comforting was my dad's ability to cook a meal in 30 minutes.
     Now your probably thinking, "Oh, like Rachel Ray, I love that show!"  WRONG!  Sure. If you have a gas range on an island and all of your ingredients readily accessible and plenty of takes and an editor to boot then yes, a thirty minute meal is not only simple to make, but "YUMMO" as well. BARF!!!  No one in the real world has that much space in the kitchen, and if they do, I bet you they don't even cook!
     My father, on the other hand, was the TRUE pioneer of the thirty minute meal. Mom also helped with the salad and such, but the Dad was the cook of the family.  There was no room for error, no second takes, just fast, wholesome, flavorful food.  (Side note: Mom was no slouch in the kitchen either, but we were on a schedule, and that schedule just didn't have the time. I love you, Mom.)
     So now we get to the inspiration of this post, the theme, the "main idea" if you will.  What so irresistable, so indulgent, so tantalizingly tasteful yet modestly mesmerizing could this comfort food be?

AN OMELET???

     Yes, simple I know, but therein lies the beauty.  So easy to make, yet so many people are terrified of attempting, at least those with which I have spoken.  And with a side of hashbrowns and toast (without butter because you have to cut back somewhere, right?) you have a delicious meal in 30 minutes.

     Growing up, this was our typical Wednesday night meal.  With mom getting home from work at 5:30 and church starting at 6:30 the quickly prepared meal was paramount if our family was to gain admission past the pearly gates (is it the first of the month? great...business meeting...hoorah...). That was an inside joke for any Baptists out there!

     The omelet was also comforting to my dad.  As I remember, he worked late every other Saturday, making sure the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed before the Sunday paper went out. When he got home he would cook an omelet before he went to bed. He ate it too, of course.  And wouldn't you know it, when I went off to college and got a job working at a bar, I would come home after work and do what? Make an omelet.  Not realizing at the time that it was becoming a ritual passed down from one generation to the next.

     So this week my wife, Katie, started teaching the new semester of dance on Wednesday evenings and I resumed my role as chauffeur  to the kiddos from the studio back to our home. After feeding them their supper and getting them settled into their toys I began to rummage through the kitchen looking for something to eat.  There was nothing. Well, almost nothing.  And then it hit me. "I bought eggs for pancakes last Saturday. Do we have cheese? Ah! We do!" And not only that, but I had an extra shallot and some bacon and I was now on a MISSION!

     Some may think an entire shallot is too much for a two-egger. Not me. An entire onion wouldn't be too much for me. I can't help it. When it comes to eating stuff that makes my breath stink I think I have a genetic predisposition.  So an entire shallot (sauteed), three pieces of bacon (cooked then crumbled), cheddar, and some green onion for color surrounded by the soft yellow binding of two beaten eggs was to be my supper for the evening. I didn't have a potato, but I did make some toast (without butter, because you have to cut back somewhere).  

     And I ENJOYED it. Every bit of it. And the kids let me enjoy it. Molly Kate was in her own world with her new doll house, but Walker was in his Exer-saucer a few feet away, sitting in silence, but watching me, with deliberate scrutiny, observing how happy I was as I relished my well deserved victuals. And that made me happy. Seeing my 7 month old son look at me in a way, almost as if he were trying to tell me, with a developing grin, "Dad, that looks great. Can I have what you have?"  And I hope that he does. And I am sure that he will.  Food and comfort.