Well, after not being able to sleep due to a looming, high pressure job interview at Dairy Queen (night assistant manager), I whipped up a special breakfast. I cracked the DaVinci code of perfect breakfast, creating the Omaleta, the ultimate breakfast sammich. In case you haven't been to the beach in a while, let me give the surf report on this latest wave of epic day starting deliciousness.
First I whip up two eggs. Medium organic or farm fresh eggs work best. They will kill you less than hormonally injected eggs. I put the left cast iron pan on Med/High and the right side cast iron pan on Med. I butter both up with a slathering of slippery, buttery, non-stick goodness and prep some veggies.
I'm a mushroom man. I always have been. Shittake, magic, domestic, whatever. I'm down for the fungus. Some folks, roomates, or girlfriend, perhaps, aren't as down with the fungus. Being anti mushroom is painful in such close quarters, but that's a whole 'nother post.
So back to the brekkie. I whip up the two egg omellete and add some broccoli, red peppers and cheese. I run a nice three cheese blend. So while the eggs were firming up, I put the tortilla on to heat up and get crispy. I timed it perfectly so that when the egg half flip/half fold is nice, brown and little bit crispy itself, I pull the tortilla shell, fold it in half and slip in the egg. Want some ketchup on that bitch? Go nuts. Tapitio? Dios Mio!
But after a prolonged frolic with the furry hound at the park after breakfast and two mugs of java, I hustled back home for an epic session spinning wrenches.
I dialed in carb settings on a finicky Kawasaki triple. This pig was gonna run right if it killed me. At present it is a tie. But I think I have a slight lead. Again, another post for another time.
So after another phenomenal run with the beast through the woods, riding my cruiser bike as the hound sprinted to keep up, I started thinking about dinner.
I peered in the fridge and realized that crucial step I missed in pursuit of fun today, I forgot to secure groceries from my friend Fred. Fred Meyer and I have an agreement. I show up and fork over cash and Fred provides me epic snacks and other sustainables.
So with limited options on the fridge front, adjacent cabinets and leftover locker, I deduced that I needed a selection of foodstuffs to cover the range of tastes on demand for this evening. Does any fast food joint offer a veggie, Mexican, sub, chocolate, peanut butter, spicy, wheat, orange entree? It looks like I'll be making a loop.
So I started with the taco truck, bellying up en Espanol for a pollo torta and dos carnitas sopes. Add a pair of Jaritios to that order por favor and I'm rolling. Hell, I'm already full just carrying the bag. Next stop, pet store. Duck flavored treats for the beast, then on to Subway.
The boss ordered up her Subway sammich (veggie, no onion, mustard, mayo, fixings, no oil) and I ran next door to Dairy Queen. The traditionally desolate landscape of sugary delights was full and lush with pre pubescent teen girls and soccer moms. I successfully pushed all perverse MILF mantra from my mind and was mildly making headway. One mom caught my eye, rather directly in fact. I did a quick ring check and noticed the hardware lacking on a particular finger. Old habits... I moved my eyes from the yoga pants to the menu. Peanut Butter blizzard. Damn straight.
Extra curricular pursuits aren't on this menu, so I berated myself with a thorough mental flogging. I'll stop being a total deril, someday.
So back to Subway. I tossed the young bird behind the counter a pair of Dilly bars (chocolate) for her and her partner in crime.
She lit up and said thanks. I said she was welcome and told her to have a good night. Her warm smile, goofy braces and quirky sunglasses got even brighter.
Aleta looked over quizzically (word?) and smiled.
We headed out and and she asked, "How did you know the Subway clerk wanted something sweet?" Well, now and then, I'm pretty good at tuning in. Almost as good as tuning out.
Oh, and I started smoking weed again.
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