I just made myself a fried egg sandwich for breakfast and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was pretty excited about it. I don't make myself breakfast too often (mostly because I'm too lazy) so when I do, it's kind of a big deal.
I love going out to breakfast, having someone bring me donuts and coffee, or waking up in the morning knowing that there's something in the Danish family nestling sweetly on my counter, covered in icing and buttery crumbles and layered with raspberries. Seriously, as I'm taking my first blissful bite I can barely contain my joy.
It isn't difficult to trace my breakfast obsession back to childhood. I know exactly when it began, why it began, and whose fault it is, MOM.
When ever someone brings up a disgusting food that their mother would make, my sister and I know that we can top it. We will win every Grossest Food contest, EVER, because NO one can ever out do what my mother did to pancakes.
Breakfasts of my childhood were an Oliver Twist-ian nightmare. (Only believe me when I say we never asked for seconds. Never.) My mother had an obsession with foods that could be cooked to a slimy, glutenous consistency and served in a bowl. We had gruel, Roman Meal, Malto Meal, Oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, Wheat Hearts, and those giant loaves of shredded wheat that she would leave un-sugared and pour hot milk over. *gag* Nothing in the cold, sweet, sugary cereal family would ever cross our table. Pop tarts were but a dream that we would whisper about in the dark, and our biggest hope was that someday we would be adopted by a fat, toothless family who would finally feed us the crap we craved. We would sit at the table, poking at the steaming bowls of nutritious glop, trying to barter with my mother on how many bites we had to take before we could remove ourselves from the Hell known as "breakfast". ("I'll take 4 bites, not throw up, and make my bed every morning for the next 2 weeks. Final offer.")
Once in a very cold and blue moon, we would wake up in the morning and smell something wonderful. Pancakes! French toast! Waffles! Bacon!!! We would race to the dining room and gleefully await our warm plates filled with happiness and maple syrup, and it would be the BEST. DAY. EVER.
One morning my sister and I awoke to the alluring aroma of pancakes and bacon wafting tantalizingly down the hallway and tickling our noses. We floated out of bed like cartoon characters, being carried by the nostrils by the delicious scents filling our minds and bodies with anticipation.
We arrived at the table, pajama clad, and eagerly dug in to the stack of golden brown pancakes sitting before us.
We shoveled in the first mouthful and slowly, it began to dawn on us that something wasn't... right.
Something was definitely wrong with these pancakes.
Upon second glance we were able to see what had been hidden beneath the golden brown crust of the pancake and the dripping butter and maple syrup...
My mother had put CORN in our pancakes. CORN. CORN.
Not cornmeal, or cornflakes, or popcorn, or even corn nuts... oh HELLL to the no. She put actual kernels of frozen corn into our pancakes.
(Backstory: One of the three vegetables I flatly refuse to eat is corn. I will eat it off the cob or popped in a bowl or ground into a tortilla, but other than that? No. I hate the texture and the taste. And my mother knows this. She used to tell me that if I didn't eat my corn she would sell me to the Indians... because it was the pre-PC 60s and 70s... and they would make me eat corn every day or starve to death, my choice.)
WHO DOES THAT?
What kind of diabolical mind would entice little girls to the breakfast table by making them believe they were going to be fed their favorite breakfast in the world and then put corn in it?
We were damaged by this. Hideously, horribly, traumatically damaged. To this day I have to pick a little at my pancake with a fork just to make sure that corn didn't sneak into it while I wasn't looking.
So go on... give me your horror stories of blood sausage, tripe, or chitlins... I can throw down hard and take home the gold with corn pancakes.