The science of breakfast

At first, I just thought I was being careless-trying too hard to be successful at early-morning multi-tasking. But after three and a half years of breakfasts with kids and 12½ years of marriage, I’ve finally decided that only people with a degree in chemistry should be allowed to cook breakfast, and that, simply put, I am not qualified for the kitchen.

I thought at some point I might actually start to get the hang of fried eggs, over medium. Not so for this top chef. And my kitchen quandaries don’t stop there. I’ve found it is close to impossible to cook a sausage patty to well-done in the middle without completely charring the outside. And forget a strip of tasty bacon: mine turn into instant bacon bits…the kind you chip a tooth on.

So what is it really about that first meal of the day that sends such culinary-challenged people as myself right over the edge? I’m contemplating several theories.

I’ve often thought that maybe it falls into the nature vs. nurture debate. That timeless discussion of are we born with it or is it learned. Some days I lean toward this “simple” explanation, as it is in my nature to abhor early-morning kitchen detail, and I have nurtured that feeling for years.

Then there are days when I think my problem might stem from the ever-popular Creation vs. evolution dispute. After all, a good, hot breakfast doesn’t just happen; it starts with a vision in the mind of the master. But hey, lets’ face it. I’m trying to create an edible bowl of oatmeal, not a new form of life.

At other times still, I am forced to concede to the fact that my incompetence stems from a breakdown in the knowledge vs. application arena. I know that it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to keep an omelet from sticking to the pan, but I can’t seem to make that apply to my cast-iron skillet.

We were taught to follow instructions on the first day of Kindergarten, and for most of us, long before that. So why is it that following the recipe on the back of a box of Malto-meal doesn’t always produce the smooth and creamy cereal promised by the picture on the front?

Why can’t the most important meal of the day turn out like it does on TV? Hot and fluffy pancakes with Mrs. Butterworth smiling nearby. Or ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls with the Pillsbury dough boy giggling in delight.

Maybe I’m just expecting too much. After all, aside from special occasions and the cocoa and toast of my youth, I’ve always been a cereal kind of gal myself. And all a mom has to do to prepare for that is dump and pour. Even Mikey will eat it, and he hates everything.

So the great question that is left unanswered remains: Shouldn’t a person with enough time to contemplate the incompetencies of her culinary craft simply “take a class”? Probably. At least for the sake of the children.

I sat at the breakfast table with my kids one day last week. They both wanted “Alto-meal” that morning, so I did my best to prepare a hearty pan full, enough to feed every munchkin in Oz, in fact. As I sat there with the boys, trying to enjoy an energy-charged breakfast, I found my smooth and creamy bowl of malto was more like a chunky bowl of meatballs. I tried to dig around them with my spoon, but it was impossible to enjoy even one bite without the dry and clumpy grains sneaking into my mouth.

As the frustration of my incapability, and my waste of perfectly good food, started to settle in, I looked up to notice that at least one of my boys shared in my dissatisfaction. It seems Brisco had been bothered by the chunks the same as I, and had spit out every single one of them onto the table. He had more food out of his bowl than he did in it.

Ordinarily, this act would have elicited a strict word and a firm hand, but seeing as how I was in the same bumpy boat, I decided if you can’t eat them, join them.

I’m still not altogether sure why I struggle so with breakfast. I definitely think there must be some truth to this “science of breakfast” dilemma. Maybe we finally have the answer to the question, “Is it an art or a science?” After all, what good are Mickey Mouse pancakes if they taste like rubber?

And that’s All in a day’s work!