It’s a lazy Sunday morning. The two of us were entwined together in our cozy bed and determined to stay that way all day long until I whispered the word “bacon” in my beloved’s ear.

The covers were kicked back with maddening speed, and next thing I know I’m pulling out fry pans, thawing rashers of bacon, beating eggs, and getting bread ready for toasting.

What you see above is a rasher of English bacon, or proper bacon as Michael would say. I had to pinch this picture from the net because I did not have the foresight of a breakfast blog, but safe to say ours looked the same as the rasher above, and was purchased from Todd at Old Country Meats found at 6328 106 Street, Edmonton. This bacon is absolutely scrumptious. Quite a bit different in taste and smell than our regular North American “streaky” bacon, but it is just as satisfying with the right distribution of hearty meat and crispy fatty treat bits of piggy goodness.

A proper full English breakfast should have the following: bacon, eggs, beans, sausage, tomato, fried bread, black pudding, potatoes, mushrooms, and of course, tea. Yes, like you must also be wondering, I am also puzzled how the English fared so well in WWII with this stuff padding their arteries.

I had a few of these breakfasts when I visited England back in the 1990’s when my incurable love affair with all things English was firmly established: Coronation Street, tea, rhubarb custard sweets, the Anglican Church, Jane Austen, the Monarchy, the Beatles, Caramacs, Peter Frampton, the BBC, the Tube, the smell of fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day, rugby…

I could go on for pages, and pages, but I don’t want you to think my love is exclusive to the English. I am in love with my own country too. I mean afterall, we have mountains, bears, hockey, poutine, central heating, Sunny Boy cereal, and Jann Arden.

With our breakfast this morning, I dialed it down, and we settled for bacon, eggs, toast, coffee and tea. A Walsh fry up, which we treat ourselves to every month or so.

It’s a tricky business with timing the cooking of all breakfasty elements and have it hit the plate at the same time, but after a few decades of practice, Michael and I have it down to a science. He’s in charge of toast, I’m in charge of the rest. I bark out “Now Now Now” as his cue to get the toast toasting, and with perfect synchronicity he plates the buttery toast as the eggs and bacon hit the plate. Then we trot off to the living room, sit in front of Setanta and watch football, or more recently cricket on the Cricket Channel, as we are in the midst of The Ashes.

And as I write this, I see Michael zooming from room to room as he does the laundry, and bakes us up a loaf of his Mum’s recipe for Irish Soda Bread. His efforts should be rewarded with a picture:

Before:

After:

As I was trying zoom in for a typical close-up of the bread, Michael demanded that I don’t “Do that crazy Nigella Lawson close up shit”. So I backed up for the arial shot you see.

Sliced up with a bit of butter and strawberry jam, this stuff is delicious with a steaming cup of tea.

Wishing you all a great week ahead. XOXO