365/3 Breakfast at Tiffany's

"Of all the lessons in life that I've learned the hard way, the ones involving frontal nudity and hot bacon grease seem to be the most enduring"

Sunday morning sleep is sacrosanct in my home. It's my recovery day, a day of peace and rest, laziness and excess. The kids know to wake up and get their own breakfast. They're generally pretty good about it, fetching themselves cereal or toast. Sometimes with strawberry jam, if we have it stocked in the refrigerator.

But, when I wake up, I want something hearty. Something that doesn't come out of a pre-packaged box. It must combine all the goodness of caffeine to awaken me, syrup to sweeten the mood, and a saltiness that is divine. And where best to have those three luscious ingredients but in a filling Sunday morning banquet of flapjacks, joe, and fried bacon goodness.

The pancakes must be buttermilk. Nothing but the lightest and fluffiest, covered in butter. For a twist, throw in some sliced strawberries. (Strawberries? I sense a trend in the house ...)

The coffee? I love my coffee. It must be ground fresh. None of this Folgers crap for me. I have to want to bury my nose in the grounds and huff it like a street junkie on Krylon (brown, if you please). Each cup must be delicately floated with half-and-half. Or whipped cream. And sugared like a white powdered donut. In other words, light, sweet, and delicious. Like cake.

And finally, the bacon. Thick cut, if you please. Not overdone. Burnt, I mean. I like it crispy, but chewy. Not too much meat, not too much fat. I want it to dissolve in my mouth like a thin slice of proscuitto. Only, with that rich pork fat kick that only comes with the sautéing in a heavy skillet.

And if there's anything you absolutely, positively must do on a Sunday morning such as this? Fancy yourself some clothing when slapping that first strip of bacon onto the griddle.

Trust me. You'll thank me.