Story 37 of 100
The Sunday Breakfast.
Arnold Fentoni finished peeling the potatoes and quickly used the mandolin to slice them into thin, round discs. Arnold was a first-generation Italian American. Actually, his mama was 7 months pregnant with him when she and his papa immigrated from Naples to Detroit, Michigan. Arnold’s name was really Arnoldo, but only his parents ever called him that, not even his brothers and sisters ever did. One girlfriend tried, but every time she did, she sounded disturbingly like his mama, so that relationship fizzled out quickly after that.
Arnold didn’t have a lot of expensive kitchen tools, other than the finest German knives he could afford. But as a self-respecting Italian, he owned one of the best and most expensive espresso machines. He had ground the beans and had the machine going before he did anything else this morning.
Arnold took the last of the bacon strips off the griddle, and put in a layer of potatoes. Then, he went to work on the peeled onion. He made sure that the slices were so thin as to be near translucent. Those he tossed into a small iron skillet. He didn’t always use onions in his breakfast potatoes, but sometimes their sweetness added just the right note.
Arnold was a cook by both vocation and avocation. He didn’t remember a time when he wouldn’t rather cook. While other kids mowed lawns…
