The Seminary Sando

I find breakfast to be a bit fascinating. People have quirky ideas about breakfast. Strong preferences it seems. I can think of more than one person who insists on consistently eating the exact same thing day after day after day. My dad does steel cut oats on a 3:1 ratio at a gentle simmer for a timed 20 min. Always almond milk and fresh berries, nothing more. A girlfriend of mine chimed in on this discussion, sharing her father's habit of ham steak and two fried eggs every single morning without fail. For years he's been doing this. Another friend of mine swears by intermittent fasting. So eating or drinking before noon is off the table, and pre-consumption of any solids she drinks a certain amount of water with lemon. Do I respect this structured type of existence? Yes. Needless to say, though genuinely curious about this behavior (am I missing something?) I'm also relatively certain that it's not for me.

Call me a wild card, but I like a bit of variety. As such, I've assigned official titles to a few of my go-to breakfast sandwiches. It started out as a way to differentiate the very basic anatomy of an egg smashed between two pieces of bread, plus a sliver of meat, a bit of cheese, and a saucy condiment. It felt necessary seeing as how a surprising array of results that can come depending on the composition of those components. Are we scrambling these eggs or do we want to an over easy yolk to pop and gush under pressure? Tell me your thoughts on bagels vs. english muffins vs. croissants vs. brioche? Are we going bold and smoky with some bacon or are you more of a sausage person? Paper thin cured prosciutto is always a classy choice, yet a thick shaggy slice of leftover holiday ham satisfies in a rustic, utilitarian sort of way.

Circle back to the seminary sando, affectionately named so after the foil wrapped treasure my mom would slip in my backpack as I ran out the door to church class, which was literally in session before the sun came out. An entire extra class before first period, every weekday, all four years of high school. Let me tell you, during those brutal early mornings when the extent of my fatigue leaned towards physically painful, this little morsel felt like a hug--warm and comforting. A little boost of encouragement. A whisper, "You got this."

"Those were hard times for you," is the running joke in my family. Hilarious. Who knew a breakfast sandwich could unravel such emotion? Therein lies the beauty of how food connects us to people and shapes our memories I suppose. There's this element of being cared for by a nurturing mother, the tactile quality of cradling crinkly tin-foil in hand, and that warm rush of steam that helps itself right into your nares. It's the perfect package.

It's not a secret recipe, just two scrambled eggs on a toasted and buttered english muffin, with ham on the bottom and cheddar on top. Carve out a little time for a breakfast sandwich this morning, and remember, you got this.