The Morning After

What's wrong with me?
What makes me, a rational, intelligent person, behave like a moron at times?
You'd think that after 10 months of having BS back home, I would have gotten over the novelty.

Well, in many ways, I have.
Especially when he squirrels away dishes in his room and brings them into the kitchen en masse.
And doesn't close the shower curtain after his shower.
And doesn't even read my blog unless I tell him to.
("Why do I need to read it, I'm living with it?")
And nags me into joining Farm Town on Facebook.

But at least I have trained him to put the toilet seat down. Most of the time anyway.

Sigh, it's not always easy to get used to living with someone again after all those years of being on my own.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.

But I still have this disturbing habit of wanting to cater to his tummy,
especially weekend mornings.

Hey, he's a grown man. He can make his own stinkin' breakfast.
But noooooooo.
I have to be a mommy.

So, this fine Sunday morning I am in the mood for some comforting breakfast.
I had a long day of singing yesterday - it was our big spring concert.
Tonight & tomorrow night are smaller concerts.
That's what "The Morning After" is referring to.
It was exhilarating & exhausting,
and I slept long & hard.

(Kathy makes her way back to BS's room,
rubbing her hands together in anticipation of a happy morning in the kitchen)
"Do you want some breakfast?"
(hint smile wink nudge)

"I would love a fruit shake."

(smile fades)
"You don't want anything else?"

"No, I'm not really hungry. Those cheeseburgers are still like a rock in my stomach.
But I could have a fruit shake."
(He and my brother went out after my concert to Doumar's, a local landmark, and ate cheeseburgers & BBQ sandwiches. They were small - or so he claimed.)

So, Kathy the mom obediently fixes her 'munchie munchkin' (obscure movie reference) a fruit shake, which took all of 3 minutes.
Maybe he's the one who has me trained. Hmmm.

He got his fruit shake & left for work, but I still wanted something more.
For me, that meant something involving eggs & cheese. And something bready.
And these . . .



They somehow found their way into my Trader Joe's basket Friday.
I don't know how they got there, really.
But look at the list of ingredients - I could eat the whole package & not feel guilty, right?



So, the players in my Trader Joe's breakfast are . . .



They're not big eggs, so I'm gonna have 2. Pfffffftt.
I decided on Joe's "British" muffins instead of toast.
Look at these . . .




Just for fun, lets look at the list of ingredients for the Velveeta, shall we?



Ha! Not feeling so smug now, am I?
Well, one must have balance in one's life, mustn't one?
And in my family, scrambled eggs require Velveeta.
Some things you just have to accept.

First, I browned the (fully cooked) sausage in a weensy bit of olive oil.
Then I whisked a bit of milk with my eggs and cooked them in the sausage pan,
just until still a little wet.
Then INto the pan goes 1 1/2 slices of Velveeta.
Let sit, off the heat, until the cheeze is melty & the eggs are done cooking via residual heat.
I spelled 'cheeze' that way on purpose.
After all, it is Velveeta.



What happened to the other 1/2 slice?
num, num, num.
I don't know.

The result is a tasty plate.



The eggs were just a little on the runny side. I guess my bit of milk was too big of a bit.
Oh, and I forgot the glass of Trader Joe's blueberry juice (with the required straw).



Now, THAT'S a good breakfast.

Wait . . .

I'm seeing something here . . .




Oooooo, I know what it is.









You'll just have to accept my inner 12 year old as well.

And, since I am my brother's sister, that muffin was just crying out to be made into a little sandwich.



Oh mama! And what a tasty one it was.
That is some good sausage.
Mapley, appley, yummy.

Now I have to let BS know I talked smack about him in this post.
Maybe he'll start reading.