Food in my African American household is what Miles Davis is to the trumpet and to jazz, it wraps itself around the moment. It's no mistake that a Sunday breakfast before church was a sermon by itself. Taking a bite of a warm biscuit, that my father just pulled out of the oven, was like tasting heaven, and, I swear I heard music in the distance bringing my black patten leather church shoes to a light tapping on the wood floor. I began moving in a rocking and then more and more rhythmic motion and before I could fall out of my chair, I heard "young lady stop that singing at the table." That is when I noticed that I was singing out loud! Yes, my father could cook and he listened to loud jazz when he did. I often refer to my father's cooking as music, jazz music. When he cooked, he was always happy, and to this day I can feel this happiness within me.
My father, the grandson of a African slave by the name Joe and an African Cuban slave woman named Jenny, could cook. Not much of a desert man, desert to my dad was the pretty bright red flesh of a summer watermelon.
Breakfast Menu:
homemade biscuits
scrambled eggs
crisp bacon
butter and syrup
juice and coffee
Without breaking the bank ($$$) and keeping open to a changing world of African infused cooking, I will find a good breakfast in San Francisco. Hang with me while I look for that special meal.
My grub: sourdough twist loaf, tomato, egg over easy, slice peaches with mint, and coffee. I love a firm peach. To this day, every time I smell a sweet peach I think about my summer visits to my grandparents' farm in Georgia. A peach tree outside their kitchen window lend branches drooping into the house offering a happy summer scent of peaches. My dads father was a farmer, who grew peaches and plums.
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