Sunday, April 05, 2015

Rahm Made Me Easter Breakfast

I wake early. Generally, I wake between 3:30 and 4:10 AM.  Easter Sunday is no exception.  I hit the floor and pray on my knees ( Memorare) hit the shower, shave and brush my buckers.  I'll read a bit and jot down some sentences about anything, as has been my practice since 1975 when I became a teacher.  I will pop over to Leo High School and check the e-mails and phone messages.  At 8 AM, I'll lock up, check the Sangamon Street side door to see if the pad lock is secure and head south on Vincennes to 116th, make a quick right hit Easter Mass at Sacred Heart Church.

Today was different.  

House sounds tend to pluck me from the arms of Morpheus - sump pump kicking in, furnace oddities that sort of stuff.  If any of the kids are staying at the house, I'll sleep with one eye open for their return from twenty-something adventures on Western Avenue.  

Today was different.

I heard the floors above me ( I sleep in the basement) creak and the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, as well as the rustle of pans. Maybe, the Fruit of My Loins had come south from Wicker Park for a night of roistering with his contemporary Catholic League Alumni boon chums and was treating them to an omelet. Could be, because something smelled mighty tasty. The girls always go straight to bed, but my son goes all Food Channel, when lickered up - like his Paw.

I performed the daily Triple S, donned a pair of sharply creased chinos and blue steel Aran knit and headed up the stairs, " Toss a few on the plate for your Silver Haired Pappy, Son!"

No response.


There, instead of my son, or one of my daughters was The Mayor of Chicago deftly swirling what appeared to be a wholesome skillet full of carefully diced green red and yellow peppers and onions.  I noticed a plate on the counter of crisp nuggets of sauteed pancetta and a cloth stuffed basket containing six biscuits.  The 55th Mayor of Chicago added a bowl of carefully beaten eggs with a dash of 2% milk into the pan and swirled the mixture of yellow, red, green and white goodness over the flames. " You have yet to pay your water bill and that had been sent out in January, if I'm not mistaken," said the 54th descendant of William Butler Ogden, " and why have you not had a water meter installed?  Just asking."

I was dumb-founded and for once in my flannel-mouthed life speechless.

The Mayor was all on task and yet he continued, " Look, you have said and written some pretty . . . over-the-top things about me - Coon Eyes, Mayor 9.5, Ballet Boy and such . . .I get it.  Most of your family seem to like me well-enough, but you seem to only want to be some kind of latitudinarian odd-ball, regular guy Democrat.  You have called me, in print mind you, a Prique.  I have kids, too.  Look.  I may not get your vote, but I'd sure like to change your heart. Sit done and have a nosh of breakfast."

Finally, I was able to speak and asked, " How'd you get in?"

" Back door was unlocked.  I checked your garage and every thing seemed in order.  Do you always leave it unlocked?" he fired back questions.

I told him that my neighbors were all cops, firemen, FBI and Secret Service agents.  
" Whatever," the mayor shrugged and added the pre-crisped and drained pancetta to the bubbling omelet and concentrated on its outcome.

" Chuy Garcia make you breakfast?"

I laughed an obvious reply to negative.

" Well has he?" Rahm Emanuel had cast off the happy chef demeanor and laser-ed his black rimmed eyes and parted his thin lips to reveal his ossein and metaphorical fangs.

"No, Chuy Garcia has not cooked me breakfast; nor have I had the pleasure of meeting the man," I feigned backbone in retort.

Image result for denver omelette with pancetta crumbs and biscuits

"But you have met me!"  His voice was pure menace, but his culinary manipulations belied his tone as he plated up and served my breakfast of cold fresh squeezed orange juice, hot black coffee, Omelet Ala Rahm, hand rolled biscuits and wedges of melon. " Eat. Enjoy."

I tucked away at the swell meal, like a guy going to the chair. . .perhaps I might.

The Mayor waxed on, " Old Coon-eyes, Old 9.5, The Dancing Prique just cooked you an Easter Breakfast. Me. I rub elbows with Big People, Hickey.  You are a @#$%ing termite!!!!  A delusional know-it all who can't be grateful for all that I have done.  All that I have given up - like Sleep!  Yeah, this Prique made you breakfast!  You got anything to say?"

I held up an index finger miming a period of grace before my response, because my pie-hole was stuffed.  I chewed carefully and savored every dancing flavor from the fork-full of breakfast bounty. Finally, when I had cleared my oral orifice of every particle of primary fuel, I answered.

"Hey, thanks for breakfast,"  

The Mayor cleaned the pots, skillets, sauce pans, baking pans and cutlery. He sprayed the prep-counter with Windex all purpose anti-biotic cleaner, as well as the stove top and scrubbed every station in the cooking process and wiped the handle of icebox. 

Without another word, Rahm Emanuel zipped up his wind-breaker and went out the back door.  He beeped open the door of his black 2015 Toyota Prius C and pulled out of my driveway.

I thought for a moment.

" Prique," I muttered, "but one damn fine breakfast."

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