a summer breakfast: bread, cheese, eggs, fruit, coffee

The older I get, the more important breakfast becomes. In my twenties, I’d have nothing but coffee in the morning — or, worse, coffee and a cigarette. Now, at thirty-six, if I don’t get a decent breakfast, I’m dizzy by ten, incoherent by ten-thirty, and drool-napping at my desk by eleven in the morning.

Through the colder months, oatmeal fills this role. (Actually, I prefer to fill a bowl with it, but, if you’d like to try it in a roll, I won’t stop you.) I load it up with raisins, banana, and nuts, sweeten it with unsulphured molasses or brown sugar, smooth it with a pat of butter or cream cheese, and up the protein with a heaping tablespoon of brown sugar, or even a fried egg on top. As I dig into my hot, hearty bowl of cereal, I marvel at how fuddy-duddy oatmeal once seemed, and how I’ve come to depend on it.

But when summer comes, oatmeal seems worse than fuddy-duddy; it becomes unpalatable. That bowl of warmth and comfort, alternating sweet with salt and soft with crunch, sounds as unappealing as a soggy bagel. At this point, it’s time to reimagine breakfast — or even deconstruct it. Rather than a bowl full of everything, I change over to everything separate, laid out on the table, so I can take a little of this, a little of that, and still get a full meal.

I always have bread around, because I’m a staff-of-life kind of guy. The way Asians feel about rice, I feel about bread. My deepest sadness at leaving Greenpoint for Red Hook may, in fact, have been the loss of heavy, moist Polish corn rye, two blocks in any direction. When I picture Paris, I picture not the Eiffel Tower, but baguettes and croissants au beurre. Childhood memories of the neighborhood where I grew up are dominated by the Lithuanian rye breads from the bakery down the hill, toasted and sopping with butter. No surprise, then, that my summer breakfast comes down to bread with varied toppings.

At $4/lb., freshly-made whole-milk mozzarella fits my cheese budget. (According to my Cheese Desirability Scale, it’s actually too cheap to bother with, but it gets a Non-Aged Exemption.) It isn’t mozzarella di buffula, but that’s ok — there aren’t too many buffula around Brooklyn worth milking. The thing with fresh mozzarella is — duh — freshness. If it’s sealed up in a package shipped from somewhere, walk on by. If it was made on site, it’s probably worth trying.

The thought of goopy eggs first thing in the morning makes me gag, but hard-boiled eggs somehow get a pass. Maybe it’s because I can peel them, dip them in salt, and down them in two bites. They’re also in keeping with the hand-to-mouthness I’ve come to appreciate in summer breakfasts. (Another way to look at my summer breakfast protocol: if it needs silverware, it’s off the menu.) Everyone has a foolproof way to make them, but everyone’s their own fool. Here’s mine, learned from a chefy ex: start the eggs in a saucepan of cold, unsalted water. Bring to a boil. Turn the burner off, slap a lid on them, and set the timer for eleven minutes. When the timer goes off, arrest the cooking with plenty of cold water. Result, no matter how many eggs you start with: yolks a touch soft, without a hint of greenishness.

Summer also means fruit. Peaches and nectarines are now officially kicking, wherever you happen to be. I judge them by smell and price. When they drop below two bucks a pound, and start to smell like, you know, peaches, it’s time to buy. A little peach juice dribbling down my chin is enough to remind me that it’s summer outside, and that it’s worth living. This may sound like a small thing, but, for someone who’d rather stay in bed, trust me, it isn’t.

Sometimes I’ll throw in a little peanut butter for the bread. When I have to sweet-talk my way into wakefulness, there might be some Nutella. Sometimes, I’ll go Dutch, and throw in some cold cuts, or dark chocolate. Summer breakfast is an open framework. It’s easy to add in, or to take away. Anything but the bread.

Or the coffee.