Sunday Funday

     When I was a kid, my Dad, the venerable David Earl Clark (pictured attempting to "Michael Jackson" his granddaughter) would make a family breakfast most Sunday mornings. The three things I remember most about these family breakfast events were (1) some good family time ensued with some good natured ribbing and general hanging out; (2) pancakes were always served; (3) I never ate the pancakes, instead I had a bowl or three of Kix. I wish I could remember a specific day or a specific event that occurred that made me love the Sunday mornings so much, but I can't. All I really remember is loving those Sunday mornings and not eating the pancakes.

     These weekly family breakfasts ingrained in me the joy of making breakfast. It's ironic since I don't really like breakfast foods (as I'm sure you already know) but there is nothing in the world I love to do more than to belly up to the stove and flip a few hundred flapjacks for family and friends. It isn't always pancakes since I do like to experiment a bit. I've made spinach and ricotta fritattas; chorizo omelets with farm fresh sorrel, garlic scapes, and basil; and even a classic filet mignon with farm fresh eggs and home fries (if you don't believe me ask Rizzo). I hardly ate any of these fine dishes, with the exception of the filet mignon) but I love making them. But no matter what I end up making, Sunday seems to always fall back on the old, reliable pancakes.

     To get the morning started, I always put on our Sunday morning record, Welcome to the Club by Nat "King" Cole. This was one of the first records I got when we purchased our turntable. Nothing really gets your day started better than Nat Cole crooning about life and love. OK, some of the lyrics may be a little sexist (in I Want a Little Girl, Nat sings " I want a little girl, she may not look, Like the kind in a picture book But if she can cook she'll suit me to a T") but it was 1959 and the dude could sing. Nat King Cole has become the soundtrack to our Sunday mornings.

     

     As I'm sure you have read previously since you are a devout follower of the Green Bean Conspiracy and have memorized all previous blogs, shared them with your friends, and printed them to bind and create your own coffee table book, you know that we try to eat naturally, locally, and organically without being to crazy about it. That is why our pancakes are made from Bob's Red Mill Pancake and Waffle mix. For a time I would make a pancake mix from scratch until I discovered Bob's Red Mill. Unlike your usual off-the-shelf pancake mix that include vast amounts of preservatives and other chemicals, Bob's mix is basically a combination of the ingredients you would use at home less the milk, egg, and oil needed to finish it up. Using Bob's mix saves time, is healthy, and produces a high quality pancake.

     Pancakes are nothing unless you are cooking with the right equipment. For years I utilized an electric griddle that Rizzo's Dad gave her as a gift. It worked well but I desired the more nostalgic feeling of a cook in the kitchen in 1950. My parents were happy to oblige and for my 35th birthday gave me the gift that every 35-year-old male clamors for; a cast iron skillet. That is not a joke. I toss this 20ish pound piece of iron up on my gas range, rock the back burner at about half power, the front at about 42% power (it is a "power" burner) and then let it ride for 10-12 minutes. After the allotted time you have a cooking service that is evenly heated to the perfect temperature and will push out three pancakes every 4 to 7 minutes at a perfectly golden brown. Not only that, once you are done all you have to do is slather a little oil over that bad boy and you're all finished. Don't you dare use water to clean your cast iron unless you enjoy the taste of rust.

     But Wesley, what do you serve on the side of your pancakes? Thank you for asking imaginary voice in my head that for some reason sounds like Bob Sagat. No Sunday morning breakfast is complete without some delicious Meat Guy sausage. Meat Guy's sausage comes from our local farmer's market (I've already made his meat famous in Saturday Morning Cartoons) and is made from the highest quality pork. This is a recent addition to the Sunday morning ritual. Just in the past two weeks I discovered that one package of Meat Guy sausage can be separated and frozen to provide three weeks worth of breakfasts for Rizzo, Cece and myself.

     Since I have mentioned at least 16 or 17 times during the life of this blog, I don't like breakfast food so I had to find a way to make this meal delicious for me but somehow disgust the remainder of the Western world. I achieve that goal by combining my typical breakfast fare in an atypical combination. Wesley's Sunday breakfast sandwich consists of the following: (1) two pancakes that comprise the bread portion of this sandwich, (2) two mouthwatering Meat Guy sausages, (3) one fried egg that is filled with more red pepper flakes than is reasonable, and (4) raspberry preserves. I'm sure I had you until the raspberry preserves but I'll tell you what, the combination of the of spicy red pepper flakes and sweet raspberry preserves will knock your socks off.

     This Sunday breakfast ritual is a family affair. Rizzo has pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Cece has pancakes, an egg, and sausage. I have pancakes, an egg, and sausage (and preserves). We even give Ellie (our dog) a pancake. Ellie has come to love her Sunday treat so much that she will sit in the kitchen and watch me cook just to make sure that she gets her Sunday pancake. I added this short paragraph for no other reason than to give me an excuse to put up a picture of Ellie eating a pancake.

     Sunday is a time to relax with family and friends and hopefully take some time to break away from the rigors of everyday life. I choose to use Sunday to make some breakfast. If you ever want to stop by to join us for Sunday morning breakfast please do. There is always plenty of pancakes and red pepper flakes to go around.

     P.S. I wanted to make a make a joke along the lines of "I take my pancakes like I take my women: hot, round, and beautifully browned" but my woman isn't round at all. I was going to stick that word in because it rhymed with browned. Rizzo is slim, trim, and beautifully browned, but that doesn't rhyme.

     P.P.S. If I ever start up my own butcher shop (I won't) it will clearly be named Meat Guy Meats. Just tell it like it is. No need for some clever reference to charcuterie or other hidden meanings. If you walk down the street and see my shop, you will know what I sell. Nothing but delicious meats.  

Barbershop Quartet

    
    

     When you think of a barbershop, what images pop into your head? Do you think of a spinning pole with the iconic colors inviting you in for a trim and a shave? Racks of 6 month old Sports Illustrated waiting to have the pages turned with no reading involved simply because they happen to be available?   

     The traditional barbershop is dead. I'm not downtrodden about this in the least. I have no desire to hang out with a bunch of other dudes I don't know and shoot the shit about the days events while waiting to have my hair cut. I'm a modern man that doesn't want to talk to anyone or be talked to while I get my modest follicles removed from my cranium. Call it what you will (introverted, shy, stuck up, snooty, dick) but I like to walk into the barbershop, give them my order, and get it done.

     I may be complicated but I want the feeling of nostalgia that comes from the barbershop without the interaction involved with the classic barbershop. This is a simple list of things I want from my barber shop:

     (1) A TV that is playing something that I want to watch

Yes, I'm bald.

     (2) A barber (not a stylist) who asks me what I want done and then asks questions before providing the service to clarify my request. This is not a gender biased statement. A barber can be a woman and a stylist can be a man. A stylist will offer suggestions, saying things like "you should consider growing out your hair to give it more body" or "have you ever considered Rogaine combined with protein packs to give you more bounce and allow you to have more play with your style"? I don't need that. I'm nearly bald and I'm fine with that. Be a barber, listen to what I want, then do it. I don't want your suggestions.

     (3) The barber shop must offer a beard trim. My beard is part of my head and is also a vital part of my style. Without a beard I would appear to be a 15-year old boy. This becomes really sad for said 15-year old boy when he discovers he is prematurely bald and is mocked by the bullies at school.

     I need a professional from time to time to keep my beard properly shaped.  As I have been bearded for over 15 years I am quite good at maintaining a proper length of facial hair.  I do, however, like a professional to give my face a once over from time to time.

    And barber (yes, I'm talking directly to the barber), I have a beard. I don't have a five o'clock shadow, or a mustache, or a soul patch. Don't shave my face and call it a beard trim. If I wanted people to see the skin around my lips and jawline I would shave myself, thank you very much.

     (4) The barber shop must offer a shave. This is where my nostalgia comes into play. There is nothing quite as relaxing as leaning back in a chair with some hot lather covering your face and the feel of a straight razor slowly slicing away those pesky neck hairs.  After the shave, clean my face with a warm towel and apply some aftershave.

     This is a list of things I don't want from a barber shop:

     (1) Talking. I don't want to tell you about my day. I don't want to chitchat about the weather. We both know that you don't give two shits about where I work or if I'm from the area. You really don't want to know and I really don't want to tell you.  And I don't care that your left foot hurts because you were out jogging and a deer crashed into you while you were rocking out the Ke$ha. I want to sit in silence and watch a baseball game while you use the number 2 clipper guard across my entire dome-piece.

     (2) Product.  I don't really know when we as a people decided that goop we put in our hair should be deemed product. Isn't every physical item purchased a product? No, only product is product.  Anyway, do you see my head in the picture above? Do you think I need Vidal Sassoon to keep my flowing locks from blowing in the breeze? Those of you blessed to hair like Michael in The Peanut Butter Solution (after using the potion) won't know this, but there is "product" for bald guys.  I swear to you that I have been offered bald head balm after more than one haircut. Because it isn't bad enough that I'm bald. Now you want to cause mass casualties by waxing up my head so the sun will reflect back into the sky bringing down overhead aircraft.  I live near a major international airport so please be more thoughtful when offering "product" for my head.

     (3) Massage. I was at a so-called barber shop about five years ago while living in Falls Church, VA. Things were going well. There had been no talking and my hair had been clipped to the appropriate length. There was no shave, but hey, I could live with that. Then, without request or offer, the barber began to massage my shoulders. It wasn't too bad but then it got weird.  Her arms went down the neck hole of my shirt, massaging my back and shoulders directly. Skin to skin.

     As we all know, I am working out to get in better shape, That does not prevent me from sweating. Like, a lot, and this day was no exception. So this person was sliding her fingers across the moisture covered skin that is my back as if I would appreciate the attention to detail. I am not paying for being molested and you should take a shower immediately after running your fingers across the Great Dismal Swamp that is my back during the summer (yes, I understand that is really gross).

     If you are like me, fear not, because barber shops for us do exist. It only took me 35 years, 7 months, 20 days, 17 hours, 33 minutes, and 17 seconds to find one. Barber Lounge on Elden Street in Herndon, VA (no, I am not above plugging places and locations that I like. Maybe I can get some free shit). Barber Lounge gave me everything I wanted from my list, even the straight razor shave, and nothing from the list of things I don't want. Barber Lounge even went above and beyond my desires. Not only is there a TV playing something I want to watch; every booth has it's own TV. So I can watch Drop Dead Diva (shut up) without bothering the guy next to me watching the second round of the international snake charming championship on Fox Sports 1. Barber Lounge also uses a gown with a clear plastic window right around the crotch region. The more perverted of us are thinking about one reason for this, but the real reason is to provide the smartphone addicted customer the ability to catch up on Kim Kardashian's selfies and still keep the discarded follicles off their Haggar slacks. All for a steal at $28.

     So thank you, Barber Lounge, for cutting my hair, trimming my beard, shaving my neck, and not talking to me.

     P.S. To all those stylists out there in the world, I don't hate you. You have a very important place in the world providing a wonderful service to those who are folliclely challenged (bald is not politically correct). I just require your services in my barber shop.  (See my head above)