The All Day Breakfast

“I’m going to have my lunch,” said Ralph, searching through the kitchen cupboards for the egg box. “Dorothy always had our lunch ready for twelve.” 

He’s a bit late today, which is fine; however, since you passed away, his whole routine has gone awry. 

#

In your absence, there was no one to remind him about chores that needed completing. Ralph had no pressure to be punctual. Now he was cooking for one. Somewhere around midday would be just fine for his lunch. A little snack he could prepare in five minutes suited him best. There wasn’t any need to worry about it.

#

“I’m a morning person, Dot,” he’d say. Since you departed, he still sets the alarm clock for seven o’clock. The local newsagent continues to deliver his newspapers.

They clatter through the letterbox in time for his breakfast seven days a week. Ralph is a creature of habit, which is reassuring under the circumstances.

Having got up early to have a solid breakfast, the menu is still under his consideration. “Monday feels like a boiled egg day,” he says, searching for a pan. 

You know that could mean boiled, fried or poached, don’t you? 

“Boiled eggs are easy,” he says, stroking his chin, “But should I put the eggs in cold water and bring to the boil or heat the water first?” 

Hmm, here it comes. You know the routine.

“Fried eggs are more fun, but where did Dorothy had put that oil?” 

Anyway, you know the frying pan needs washing, so fried eggs won’t happen today. Your poached eggs were his favourite. He loved your eggs benedict with homemade béchamel sauce on a toasted muffin. Poor Ralph’s poach eggs were often so disappointing. At least he tried, didn’t he?

You watch Ralph flop down on that folding deck chair you kept in the kitchen. It gave you relief when the pain stopped you standing by the sink to peel the vegetables. You know what he’s thinking now. He’s looking from the sink to the pans and back to the stove. The garden gate creaks open. A rolled copy of The Times and The Telegraph judders its way through the door’s brass letterbox. 

A hefty thud on the hallway tiles is the deciding factor this morning. Ralph settles for a cup of tea and his crossword puzzles. The headlines will take his mind off his stomach for a while. Ralph called this his “mulling time”. Time to mull things over and make choices about his day. ‘Thought for food,’ he called it. His eureka moment would appear from nowhere and inspire him. Divine inspiration occurred when he least expected it. Ralph hadn’t much of a plan for the rest of the day or week, either.

#

You were a woman with an agenda and kept yourself busy all day long. “Heaven only knows what you get up to,” Ralph would say, as he peered over his newspaper and considered the weather. His words were like a delicate barbed mayfly fluttering above a chalk stream of wild trout. They hovered and darted away as though they never existed. You pursed your lips together, counted to ten and resisted a snap at the bait. Your mother’s caution rang true. “Least said, soonest mended, dear.”

You kept your council for the entire marriage. 

#

Today, there was a blue sky and a gentle breeze outside. The forecast wasn’t promising, but Ralph will totter out and survey the garden. You were the green-fingered one who nurtured cuttings and kept the vernal growth at bay. He scuttled about with the pruning shears and thrashed about with the two-stroke lawnmower.

“This morning,” he said, “I’ll do the weeding.” 

You’re not there to encourage him and fetch his gardening shoes. He’ll finish his crossword and then head out, providing the rain doesn’t spoil his plans. 

On the way to the back door, Ralph hesitates. An abdominal rumble breaks the silence again. You know he won’t achieve a lot without his breakfast.

“Boiled eggs, are best today.” Ralph can read your mind and he makes a detour round the kitchen. He shuffles from the sink to the stove and places a couple of eggs into a pan of water. Ralph checks his watch. “Five minutes should do it.” There’s a whoosh as the gas ignites and he jolts backwards to avoid singeing his dangling shirt cuffs.

#

A rust-red metal bolt secures the garden shed. Ralph grinds it back to reveal the interior of his secret kingdom. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of ancient gardening equipment that dates back to the nineteen-fifties. He needs to locate the knee rest. His knees aren’t what they were. They’re playing up after yesterday afternoon’s visit to the rear borders. The weed removal work will never get finished unless he can continue his labours in comfort.

Ralph searches high and low between earthenware pots, coils of hose and bags of compost until he finds his knee rest. You made his kneeler from an old cushion wrapped in black plastic and secured with duct tape. 

“It’s not pretty,” he says, dragging it clear of a rake. “But it kinda works.” 

You never liked it either, but then you never had his knees.

In the doorway, Ralph stops and sighs. “What a mess,” he says, as he closes the door. His gardening work hasn’t started and already he’s making life difficult for himself.

#

You used to be efficient at tidying the shed. Ralph never figured out how you kept it so neat. Your mother’s ‘good-house-keeping-practice’ dictated that you cleaned your kitchen surfaces while you prepared a meal. You never needed a gym membership. Housework was your workout session. 

It was too much for Ralph. He found it exhausting just watching you work away in the kitchen. 

“I can’t spend my days organising the shed every time I go in there,” he’d say. 

You’re watching him weed the remaining borders and maybe tomorrow he’ll clear up his chaos. The shed will have to wait. He doesn’t have your training, but at least he’s thinking about keeping everything in order.

#

“That’s enough for now,” he says, stretching his back and rubbing his knees. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He suppresses another rumble as digestive juices gurgle inside his empty stomach. “Crikey Moses, the eggs!”

The water’s boiled dry, and the eggs are charred black like lumps of basalt. Ralph takes the frazzled pan and dumps it in the sink. “I wanted scrambled eggs anyway,” he says, as steam billows up and condenses on the inside of the window. “But where the devil did she put that beater?” 

#

You had a place for everything and kept everything in its place. Ralph said you were too territorial in the kitchen. It’s just that you had your way of doing things. You’d suspected that Ralph had been coached to avoid kitchen duties, however, it was still a surprise when his father confirmed that theory. Funnily enough, you bumped into him last week, which was doubly surprising because he died twenty years ago.

His father, prior to the wedding, gave Ralph one piece of advice. “Ralph, my boy,” he said, “Just follow my guidance and you’ll enjoy a long and happy marriage.”

Ralph was all ears, and keen to hear the words of wisdom. 

“After the honeymoon, offer to help in the kitchen.” 

Ralph wasn’t sure about this suggestion. 

“Washing up is a useful daily task, so make a point of offering your services.”

Ralph never witnessed his father helping at home. He avoided the kitchen at all costs.

“But, Ralph, and this is vital,” he said, “What you must remember to do is drop a couple of plates whilst helping on your first visit.”

Ralph frowned and opened his mouth to speak. 

“Trust me,” his father said, “I guarantee she’ll never invite back and you’ll live a happy and trouble free life.”

“But what if something happens and I need to look after myself?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, my boy.” His father smiled. “Wives always outlive their husbands. It’s just the way of things.” 

And so it came to pass that you drifted into dementia and passed away, taking all your housekeeping secrets with you.

#

Following the crockery incident, Ralph had said, “I’m more of an outdoors person, dear.” Ralph wasn’t territorial about his newfound domain. He gratefully received any help in the garden. Besides, you always had a better way to do things out there, too. 

After his father confirmed your suspicions, you realised Ralph was quick to learn. He’d applied his experience in the kitchen to the gardening duties. The first afternoon you spent together, he decapitated all your prized roses. You demoted him from that responsibility too and re-tasked him to the borders, where he could do less obvious damage. 

In retrospect, it made for a long and contented marriage, apart from his sore knees. Ralph got to finish all his broadsheet crosswords every day, and he enjoyed the benefit of both your home cooking and your horticultural skills. You ensured a sense of order and kept the house looking clean and organised to the standard recommended by your mother. The neighbours assumed Ralph was the able-bodied outdoor partner in the marriage and they always complimented him for his wonderful display of roses. The borders and lawns also drew attention for being manicured, under your supervision, of course.

#

Monday was never a day to rush into things, and after prevaricating all morning, Ralph declared it was time for lunch. Eggs were his favourite, but how to prepare them? Now that’s the thing, isn’t it? Boiled, fried or poached?

A cup of tea would help matters. 

Tea was the solution when you were in charge. You knew what he liked, even if he didn’t. A cup of tea bought you fifteen minutes to get the lunch prepared without him fussing about and getting in the way.

You organised your home like clockwork and had fresh eggs delivered to the house with the milk every morning. William’s farm still supplied its regular customers and collected the empty milk bottles first thing. It was Ralph’s job to pay for them. He left the correct change in a tin, a week in advance. The milk and egg money was Ralph’s uncontested area of expertise.

#

Eggs and milk had become Ralph’s staple diet since you’d shuffled off the mortal coil. He was never keen on the supermarket. 

“Terrible places,” he’d said. “They’re so bewildering and far too busy.” 

Ralph had ventured there once or twice for a loaf of bread, but it was a safari he regretted every time. He’d have to ask for directions from the store assistants, and they were so impatient with him. 

“You’re better suited to collecting the weekly provisions,” he’d say, and his sporadic visits confirmed this notion. “You make it look so easy,” he said, after his last visit. “Besides.” He sighed. “It seems crazy to go through the ordeal when you enjoy it.”

#

Anyway, there’s no point in trying to get fancy in the kitchen at his age. He can do the basics, and that’s sufficient. Eggs and milk are fine for now. Maybe Mrs Williams could bring him a loaf with her next delivery? She won’t mind. Yes, poached eggs on toast would be lovely for breakfast. Butter might be an issue. I notice there’s not much left in the fridge. Mrs Williams can supply a fresh pack for him tomorrow.

“Is that the time?” 

It’s twelve already.

“What a busy morning,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Dorothy would be proud, God bless her.”

What’s for lunch today, Ralph?

“Eggs would be nice for a change.”

The End