I recounted this story to my sister earlier today and just now decided to post it here. Interested to know if anyone's interested in such things, y'know, personal stories and experiences.
Back in the early to mid 1950s, Dad and I would often have breakfast together on Sunday mornings. We'd both be up before anyone else in the house, and this was our time. I'd be up before him and watch Victory at Sea on the TV and wait for him to come downstairs.He'd make breakfast for us, often salami and eggs, French toast, or maybe just eggs with potatoes. He'd make his eggs over easy, or what he'd call "Bullseye eggs." I didn't care much for the runny yolk and all the white, and preferred scrambled. We'd sit in the kitchen eating what he cooked, and just talk about whatever came up. School, money, baseball, his business (I was frequently going into work with him on Saturdays or on weekdays during the summer months, so I had both an interest and an understanding about the business, but that's another story).A few times he'd tell me about what he did in the war. Never anything about combat or fighting, but what transpired during downtime or during training. I can still remember him telling me how the guys made French toast (without milk) just using old bread and pilfered eggs, and mixing the eggs in their helmets. Oil or butter for cooking was also sometimes "liberated" but that's what the American army was doing in Europe ... liberating ... liberating the population from fascism and liberating butter from farmers.Those were pretty special mornings for me. Anyway, one morning I decided to make breakfast for dad. I was pretty young, maybe eight years old. I made salami and eggs, cutting thick slices of Hebrew National from the chub which we usually had in the fridge. I could see, even the first time that I tried it, that the slices were too big to comfortably eat, so I figured out that dicing the slices would be a good way to go. I fried them up in the skillet and mixed some eggs in a bowl. I then added the eggs to the salami, which had crisped slightly, and then scrambled the whole thing together. Dad was very surprised that I made breakfast, and was very complimentary. I really don't know how good a job I did with that breakfast, but dad found no fault. That was his way.And that is my earliest memory of cooking for someone.
