eggs and bacon

Oliver, the owner of the North Fork Hostel, taught me how to make coffee this morning, using the hand-grinder clamped on to the side of the cabinet. I added my Fair-Trade organic, fresh roasted coffee beans (whose purchase supports the local grizzly bear population, I'll have you know!) and inhaled the dark, nutty scents as it slowly, mechanically became thin espresso dust. Then he showed me how to properly fill the stove-top espresso maker and which gas burner to set it on. He said it would make a "Woosh!" sound as the steam shot up through the grounds and became a thick, delicious bomb of morning happiness (or that's how I defined it in my head, anyway).

I have been imagining this breakfast for weeks, maybe months now. Yesterday I bought farm-fresh eggs of all different colors and sizes and natural, uncured bacon (not local, but I hope to change that at the farmers market). All those days, stumbling into the employee dining room in the mornings at Many Glacier and eyeing the flacci, light yellow "eggs" that were squeezed from a bag onto the flat-top grill, always sent me into at least 10 minutes of fantasy for this very morning:

First, I would heat the cast iron skillet until it warmed up my hovering hand. Then I would lay 3 (or maybe even 4!) thick strips of bacon on the black surface and watch the edges start to bubble. I would inhale. My eyes would roll back in my head. The bacon would cook slowly, so as not to burn, and so I could savor their natural aromatherapy, doing a little happy dance by the stove. Then I would scoop the finished pieces onto a plate and cover them, to keep them warm. There wouldn't be much grease in the pan, because it is good meat, but there would be enough to support the eggs. I'd crack them with a sharp-edged spatula and celebrate their orangey yolks, bobbing just a little in the bacon grease. They would receive a pinch of salt and some fresh black pepper before I flipped them over to bring them to medium. One egg might even break a little and allow its firm yolk to spill gently into the white.

I seldom imagined eating the meal. That was a given. It was the preparation I missed, and the choice of fresh ingredients, the way those dance together in heat. The way these small details wake up your senses in the morning and remind you the little delights of being alive. I got that wish this morning, with the added bonus of aspens peaking outside the window. Their beautiful pallet of yellow and green made a swaying painting, framed by the natural wood window sills of this house. The sky was one big cloud so that, save the ticking clock on the wall, one would have no idea what time it was. A German girl and I worked through a broken English conversation about travel, National Parks and bacon grease as I scooted around the kitchen in my dream.

And now with a full belly and a mug of cinnamoned coffee, it's time to begin studying for another dream. I am taking my first level in Master Court of Sommeliers October 2nd, and I need to learn a phenomenal amount of information before I can even walk through those doors. I prayed this morning for concentration and ability to absorb the material. I picture the day as a combination of sitting in this beautiful kitchen, curling up by the wood-burning stove with the cat (also named Oliver), and laying out on the 70's couch in the screened porch when the weather becomes warmer this afternoon. I'll make a lentil soup for lunch and have that for dinner as well, maybe with more eggs and some toast with jelly. And I'll go for a run in my barefoot shoes. If I am lucky, I will achieve what my meditation teacher asks us to consider every day: Be grateful for what you have and that you have tried your best.