A breakfast menu

A break­fast menu
Once upon a time, not too long ago, but long enough to feel sen­ti­men­tal about, I cooked up to three meals a day for the girlfriend.

We lived off Anzac Parade, on Lenthall Street in Kens­ing­ton. Just the two of us.

In the sum­mer, she had a job at the Hyatt Regency which was then located on top of the hill at Kings Cross, where the famous Coke neon sign was. As she was the only one in the house with a job, I had the house­keep­ing duties. I shopped for gro­ceries, think­ing up dishes as I pushed the trol­ley down the super­mar­ket aisles.

Break­fast: Tuna on Eng­lish muffins with aspara­gus and swiss cheese.

6 Eng­lish muffins
1 can tuna
1 can aspara­gus spears
1 doz slices, swiss (or near­est) cheese
black pepper

I’d wake up an hour before she did, at 6am, and qui­etly go to the kitchen to pre­pare the break­fast that would ensure she was in love with me the rest of the day.

The sun was already up and peer­ing through the liv­ing room win­dows. It used to get so bright in the morn­ings that you’d get a sun­burn if you didn’t cover your­self with the blan­ket prop­erly. I’d sing softly to myself as I took the muffins out of the bag and put them on the chop­ping board where I cut them in hor­i­zon­tal halves. Two muffins. The other four went back into the bag, later to be devoured by myself in a less del­i­cate fashion.

La donna è mobile
qual piuma al vento
muta d’accento
e di pensiero

He that will trust in her.
He that con­fides in her
Gives up his heart to her
Yet he can never be
Free from his mis­ery
‘Til he embraces her
Won’t know what love can be)

Open­ing a can of tuna takes some effort, espe­cially when you don’t want to spill the oil onto the kitchen counter. A lot of kitchen tow­els are employed. It’s best you open the can till you’ve left 5′ of the 360′ hang­ing as a hinge. You then use a fork to pry it open, dig out the con­tents into a bowl. And this is where the art begins.

With the fork, I’d mas­sage the tuna into a paste, not too fine, not too coarse, blend­ing freshly ground black pep­per at intervals.

By now, she would have woken and would be head­ing to the bath­room. I could then turn on either the tv or the radio. This day, I turned on the radio, because the cricket hadn’t started on the tv. Triple M 104.9FM. Cof­fee or tea? Tea, she says. I’d put the ket­tle on, take two mugs, two Lady Grey tea bags out and put them in the mugs.

Same deal with the can of aspara­gus. Drain the water and set the spears on a plate, and cut them to size so they can fit on top of the muffins with­out droop­ing over the sides too much.

Plac­ing the four muf­fin halves on the board, I’d spoon the tuna evenly on them, then place the muffins into the toaster oven, already pre-heated for a minute. It takes a minute for it to be slightly toasted. I’d take out the halves and arrange the aspara­gus spears on top of the tuna, and place one slice of cheese on top of each tuna muf­fin. Back into the oven they went. This time, I had to watch as the cheese melted, wrapped itself over the aspara­gus and tuna, browned slightly and drooped over the sides and not a moment longer.

With tongs, the tuna, aspara­gus and swiss cheese open muffins were ready to be served, two halves on each plate, with a slice of tomato on the side for good measure.

Juice? Orange, please. Tea was ready by then too.

We’d sit, eat, and I didn’t have to wait for her to tell me she enjoyed the break­fast. You are mak­ing me fat, she’d say. Then don’t eat, I’d say. We don’t say much else. I’d ask her what time she fin­ished that day and whether she’d like dinner.

Yes.

OK. I’ll go to Coles again later.