Severely Herbed and Double-Smoked

It’s beautiful outside, crisp, clear and sunny; the birds are full of song. You got up early, snuck out before I had a chance to make you coffee, and by the time you’re back, exhausted, sweaty, I’m on my second cup.

You sink into the wing chair in the corner, staring at the air above the stove. “I am so hungry I don’t know what to do.” A streak of dirt crosses your cheek and you’re still breathing heavily, a rhythmic huff so loud it’s drowning out the birds.

I laugh and rise, rinse out my mug. “Go, take a shower, breakfast will be ready by the time you’re done.”

The situation calls for serious protein. I stick my head into the fridge. I know there is a chunk of bacon, smoked twice until it turned a mellow brown, the color of strong tea. To my delight I found this staple of my childhood – and an array of other German treats – when I discovered Morse’s down the road, home of the famous Morse’s Sauerkraut. I cut the bacon into generous slices, easily a quarter inch. Each cut releases a briny, smoky fragrance that fills the air with memories.

With the bacon slowly sizzling on the stove top, I stroll down to the kitchen garden. All that protein needs to be lightened by some fresh green herbs. Three, four, five stone steps and around the studio corner, I enter into paradise.

This is my first time planting veggies after a break of twenty years. Life in the city hampered growing – not enough sun, not enough space and never ever enough time. My first time living in the country. In early June, the start of planting season, I went wild. Tomatoes, carrots, beans and peppers, parsnips, eggplants, collard greens – the more I planted, the more I craved. Beets, lettuce, cauliflower, arugula, radishes, Swiss chard, and anywhere I found a corner I planted marigolds and herbs.

Meandering through the twelve raised beds of sparkling green and gold, I listen to my inner palate to match up eggs with herbs. I pass by the cilantro, the stronger stuff like tarragon and dill, in favor of a bunch of chives and parsley, but right before I step inside, I catch a glimpse of the perennial stand-by’s we planted near the door, bend down and add a snip or two of thyme, a leaf or three of sage.

The aroma that awaits me in the kitchen is all it takes to make me salivate.

I turn the bacon slices and crack six eggs into a bowl, each yolk a sunny smile. They’re local, laid by chickens that get to live a life that’s not confined. Then I add kosher salt and grind up pepper and whisk the eggs into an even yellow, chop up the herbs and mix them in.

The bacon’s done; crisp, meaty slices that retained their heft. I let it rest on top of paper towels, push down the lever for the toast just as you come back down, all scrubbed and shiny and your hair slicked back. Immediately, your eyes turn to the paper towels. Three steps, your hand is reaching out. You glance at me. I smile and nod.

There is no better bacon than the slice that has been stolen.

I fire up another pan to melt a tablespoon of butter, the secret of good scrambled eggs. In German, they’re called Rührei, stirred eggs, and that’s the second trick. I turn the gas on high and stir, never letting up, until the bottom sticks. At that point I remove the pan, and continue stirring, scraping the sides and mixing until the eggs are done. Light and creamy and severely herbed, this is completely different from the usual diner food.

When you put down your fork your face is lit with pleasure and, just at the clink of silver on the edge of porcelain, the birds resume their song.