I was going to start this entry off with me waxing poetic about Saturday morning, but I think I’ll start off with the deviled egg recipe (part 2 of the Great Deviled Egg Experiment, remember) I did on Friday instead. It was rainy Friday and with the CBC on in the background, I puttered around the house, alternately watching season 3 episodes of Supernatural, and deciding when to make these. I must admit that by paying attention to how I boil the eggs and when to stop the boiling and dunking them in an ice bath, I so far have completely managed to avoid that unsightly gray outer on the yolks. I was going to completely use the pickle relish I had in the fridge but after being unsure as to whether the jar may have been spoiled or it was utterly normal to have occasional bright green flecks in said relish, I just made them super plain but added some leftover chives. And hey, if you know whether or not it is in fact utterly normal to have bright green flecks in your jar of pickle relish, do let me know.

Yes, I know they don’t look anything special, but they are tasty.

Grandma Stanley’s Deviled Eggs

6 eggs

3 tbl. mayonnaise

2 tbl. sweet pickle relish

salt and pepper to taste

Place the eggs in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Cool the eggs in cold water. Crack and peel. Cut in half lengthwise.

In a small bowl, combine the yolks, mayonnaise and pickle relish. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Fill the white halves with the filling.

Ahhh….Saturday mornings. A little bit of sleeping in then getting up all fuzzy from slumber, but as you slump at the kitchen table, bleary, your husband has coffee ready for you. And you sit there, sipping, poring over the pages of one of your newest cookbooks.

One thing about our Saturday morning is that we take our time getting to breakfast. There are a couple of little piddly cleaning things to be done or tidying things to be done. I take that back: he does some tidying while I sit there, rallying my brain cells to wake up.

We live in a happy house with three cats; two boys, one girl. The girl cat—one of the set that I entered into marriage with—likes to prowl around the kitchen while we make breakfast. She’s fairly verbal in her increasing dotage but it’s always the kind of verbal where you’re pretty sure she’s chastising you. In our heads, Drusilla sounds a lot like Katharine Hepburn.

At the great pain of sounding like a Crazy Cat Lady, I love our cats to death. It’s interesting living in a house with such distinct feline personalities. Drusilla is the boss, Picasso is the happy-go-lucky dude and of course, Ozzy is our special needy case. I am thankful to have them around to entertain and astound us.

Saturday mornings for me now are very different than they were when I was single. For one, the odds of a hangover are greatly reduced.

Another thing is that my husband cooks breakfast for me. Although he would like to state that I really only let him cook on weekend mornings.

The LSC likes to make pancakes; he uses this old 70s-era cookbook dedicated to Northern cooking. Well, this weekend he used his standby recipe with a few adjustments.

This time out he wanted to make coffee pancakes. And as much as I admit to “mother-henning” when he’s in the kitchen, I tried not to point out that the batter was too loose and that pan didn’t feel as hot as it should. I was proved right when the first batch turned out badly.

Upon yet further adjustments, his pancakes achieved their goal: crisp edges, soft insides and a clear hint of coffee throughout.

I laud him his efforts at pancakery. I myself have actually never tried to make homemade pancakes, years of my mother’s superior specimens cowing me and spoiling me for life. I suppose I should actually get around to making my own someday but again, it’s hard when you have a husband who does it so ably. These days, there is just something wonderful about Saturday mornings. I expect now that I am content with my lot up here in Canada, there will hopefully continue to be wonderful Saturday mornings. If I am a lucky girl, I just might have a chance.