Rise and shine

I love springtime mornings in North Oakland.

First of all, you should know that I live in what can best be described as a treehouse. It's a light-filled, upstairs in-law unit (these types of apartments, usually little cottages that people build at the back of their property or above their garages, are wildly popular in Berkeley and Oakland) that is absolutely ensconced in greenery.

Directly outside my living room window is an immense and vibrant redwood. I love to sit and watch the squirrels and birds doing their daily rituals and frolics in the swaying branches. When I leave the door open in the evenings, the doorway becomes a picture frame for evening light catching on the bright green leaves of the trees in the neighbor's yard.

So when I wake up, and walk into my living room/ kitchen, the house is filled with morning light filtered through leaves and branches. Short of waking up in, say, a yurt, and opening the flap to greet wild nature, this is a pretty good way to start things off. Today it made me holler "hello, day!" to no-one in particular.

And the action doesn't stop there. As soon as I leave my house, I'm met with wafts of fragrance emanating from the neighbors' jasmine bushes and crawling wisteria vines, as well as other unknown species of swoony-scented flowers. There are some gardens in my neighborhood that are just riotous. Flowers of every color of the rainbow! Extravagant, droopy vegetable leaves! Blossoming vines snaking their way over trellises! Burbling fountains! You know, sometimes I miss my parents a lot, and I entertain the notion of moving back to L.A. . . . but then I walk down my street.

Not to mention, the morning bustle on College Avenue -- the many people (presumably members of that lucky breed, freelancers) savoring their coffee and newspapers and conversations at Royal Grounds' outside tables, the florist setting out her refulgent wares, the family owners of Yasai market arranging pears and apples to entice passers-by.

But wait. Let me back up. Before I take you out of my wee sanctuary, dear reader, I have to tell you about breakfast. (This being my proclaimed attempt at writing a food blog, perhaps you were wondering where the food went.) I love springtime mornings in North Oakland, but rain or sun, the height of blooming spring or the depths of gloomy winter ("depths" being a relative term, of course), I love to eat breakfast.

There are some people in this world who don't like breakfast. These poor souls say things like, "I'm just not hungry in the morning," or "I can't face food before 10 a.m." Perhaps most perplexing: "I forgot to eat." (You forgot to eat? Do you have to write post-its to remind yourself to breathe and sleep, too? So strange, so unfathomable. But I digress.) I am not one of these people! I wake up in the morning excited to get going with my first meal of the day. One of the reasons I loved living with my dear friend M was that she, too, was a ravenous breakfast-eater. She told me that as a child, her mother would say, "I love to watch you eat breakfast, because you're like a hungry animal at the table." That's the way I feel, too. It's morning! I'm alive! Bring on the fuel! Yes.

For most of my life it's been cereal and milk, cereal and milk, cereal and milk. Of course there was the occasional detour to eggs and waffles, or a scoot down the vacation hotel buffet (canned cherries in syrup? no thanks). And of course, cereal choices slowly evolved over time as I learned about things like flax and buckwheat, and as boxes of milk were replaced with boxes of soy, almond, and -- lately -- hemp milk. And I did go through a phase of eating quinoa, coconut oil, stevia, and almonds every morning. But the song has largely remained the same: I pour some stuff out of one box, then pour some more stuff out of another box, and go for it. A quick scrub of the bowl, and I'm out the door.

Then, about two winters ago, I took myself to Mexico for an ill-fated yoga retreat preceded by a very sweet adventure, complete with a trip to the Monarch butterfly sanctuary in the state of Michoacan (walking through thrumming clouds of orange butterflies: a distinct highlight of my life). One morning in the tiny town of Tepoztlan, prior to hiking up to the very tall top of a mountain to visit a very lackluster temple, I sat by an open window at a table covered with a green tablecloth, in an upstairs cafe, and ordered a typical Mexican breakfast. Black beans, warm corn tortillas, huevos revueltos (that's "scrambled," not "revolting"), queso fresco, salsa de tomate, and a couple of lime wedges. Maybe there was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, too.

And I said mmmmm-MMMM! I had forgotten how fabulous this particular breakfast arrangement was. (When I was growing up, my folks and I travelled extensively in Mexico, the three of us cramped into a rental car, my dad careening us over crumbling mountain roads. That's another story, but thanks to those adventures I grew to love Mexican food.) So light, yet so substantial. So simple, yet so flavorful! My love of the Mexican breakfast was re-ignited, and every now and again upon returning Stateside, I would make it for myself.

For the last year or so, though, it's been back to the old staple in the a.m. It's true, I have ventured into the world of hot cereal -- oatmeal, or cream of rice or buckwheat, plus a few almonds and raisins and cinnamon. Requires a little more clean-up, but it's delicious, and best of all it sticks to the gut till lunchtime. Merrily I rolled along, morning after morning, stirring up some steaming, grainy mush or another. Nothing challenged my hot-cereal paradigm, and I was content.

Until. Until! Yes, again breakfast is evolving. A couple of weekends ago, my dear friend R and I spent two nights in an absolutely adorable cabin in Big Sur, for my birthday. This place has a clawfoot bathtub on the porch, so you can sit in a blissfully hot bubble bath as you look out over the misty woods. Incredible. We went on glorious hikes, rested by the fake fireplace (flip the switch, and boom! Cavemen could never have imagined it) and cooked. Well, really, she cooked, while I watched.

R is a natural in the kitchen. In fact, just in being her friend and watching her eat I've learned a lot about enjoying one's food. This woman relishes her meals. She somehow resembles a squirrel, in that she takes her food in her hands as she eats it; she uses her little fingers and then gives her fingertips a satisfied slurp. She's a true gourmand, and her delight provokes mine.

Anyway, back at the cabin, she whipped up an amazing chicken curry for dinner one night, and both mornings for breakfast she made this amazing egg-soy-vegetable scramble. It was very quick, but involved sauteeing vegetables, pouring the sauteed vegetables into a bowl, mixing them with eggs and soy sausage, and then pouring the whole mixture back into the pan to scramble it up. And I was moved to say mmmmm-MMMMM! Delicious. Much to my delight, as well, this concoction stuck to the gut til lunchtime! Even after our hikes! I was inspired.

So since then I've bought a couple of half-dozen cartons of eggs, and I've been experimenting. Eggs and small, sweet peppers and olives! Eggs, onions, and chicken sausage! And today, I rocked this fabulous combination: sauteed red spring onion, parsley, eggs and a generous dollop of Muhamarra roasted red pepper and walnut spread (which is delicious), scrambled up and then piled on top of a warm, organic corn tortilla with melted raw goat cheddar.

Pure genius, if I may say so.


And so tasty.

And that's the ever-unfolding story of breakfast. What do you like to eat in the morning?