In a rare twist of events from the usual humdrum and rush of getting to work, I caught a seat on the bus next to a mild but rather loquacious elderly man. He turned to me and resisted saying many things in his speech, perhaps holding back from mentioning in his chat some apt observation of my larger-than-life backpack, spiked hair and tattered jeans and shirt. Yet through his firmly smug grin and by the careful countenance of a gentleman (if not obvious by his mocassins, briefcase and checkered and tailored shirt), he still made small talk with me. On miles we spoke about Australian politics and the economy, about the crowdedness of the University bus and the overwhelming queue at his local pharmacy, where he loads up on his prescription medications, as, how he puts it, “a baited rat”.
After much ado and settling into the natural rhythm of the bus ride, he lowered his voice and kept his head ducked down and his lips spread like a cheeky child of youth. He asked a rather personal and unsettling question at first, but one that stayed with me for several days. I mulled over it, gave it serious thought (despite my obvious temptation to feel mocked) and decided to analyse precisely what it is that I do that makes my daily ink of events unique. All of this inspired by the question of: “What gets you up on a weekend?”
What makes this post particularly special is the fact that it opens a window into the Sunday routine of four distinct, but conjoined family lives in a metropolitan household.
For myself, The Day of Rest is a welcome solace from the working week, which has already been stowed into the wardrobe of clothes: be it every manner of office residue from swipe card, keys, wallet, pens, clipboard and newspaper. Carefully selected for our mood on that rising day, a our woes get tossed onto the back-burner for a while and a few eggs are cracked onto the front burner of the stove. It’s not uncommon to find the bathroom in occupied status for a good hour or more as the household members decide that a sleepy head is an undesirable look.
The early morning table-set breakfast is a ritual that needs no announcement from me, for Nature’s herald is enough to rouse many sleepy contented souls from their slumber. For two of these housemates, before even the final plate reaches the table, a few sleepy toes stretch and yawn and poke their inquisitive length outside the sheets. A defiant big toe shields the pinky from the sudden drop in temperature as the feet slither from their comforting hibernation. The sole goes first of course, lazily clambering to solid ground from that contorted mess of blankets, pillows, quilts and socks. A deft toss of the hand casts aside the hair from the face and a twist of the arm and a squirm releases the torso from the gentle caress of the cotton spread. A bright, beaming smile greets the last rays of dawn and welcomes the ambitious rays of light, to blanch the once shrouded window, in a soft and warm oscillating mantle.
My favourite Sunday dish? Arguably what gets me out of bed to fulfill a grumbling stomach is a piled plate of an original recipe for French toast. Many times I have served the savoury and the sweet renditions of this French toast, both of which to admirable applause, and more often than not a request is asked to make seconds and thirds.
Each of us find our waking feet at seperate times. Naturally, I tend to wake first from a rather ingrained habit of getting up by the first sounds of traffic at the train station next door. (Actually I lie, for Django, our family budgie, finds his bearings in the morning even earlier than I with a quick sneak to the seed bowl and a few chirps at the attractive loriekeets that pass by our window.
Admittedly, in the writing of this post, I was absolutely torn between the versions. Should I rant on about the delicious merits of a sweet and arguably more traditional French toast or do I indulge your senses in a rendition that is equally pleasing the palate? The disparity all began after school – some of you may have shared the (dis)pleasure of having a before-school or after-school care class while waiting for your parents to pick you up or while they rushed to early morning starts. We all sat around one of those conventional iron electric cookers that made wonders of eggs and bacon. One day, on our special allocated “treat” day, our carer staff served up morsels of this delicious fried bread in a coating of delectable golden syrup and icing sugar. By that same token, in more recent times I have been witness to an adaptation of French toast that is made fluffy and savoury by the dipping of the bread in egg yolk and dashed with a pinch of salt, oregano and chilli. Perhaps now you can understand why this recipe has made itself into a league of its own and why I have been so torn.
INGREDIENTS (serving 4)
four large sized eggs
bread slices (white or brown)
few sprigs of oregano
handful of sweet basil
pinch of salt, pepper, sugar
tablespoon of apple cider vinegar
tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
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