In four years of marriage, I’ve somehow managed to avoid making Simon a “Full English Breakfast.” How, you ask? Well, I do all the cookin’, and when we want breakfast, I go all American on that boy and whip up some banana pancakes with a hefty helpin’ of maple syrup, crispy bacon, and even a side of grits.
But yesterday morning, he finally wore me down. We went out for coffee at our new favorite neighborhood spot, and the people at the table next to us ordered a Full English. Simon was salivating, but we’re saving money for our upcoming trip to the US, so I promised him I’d whip him up something similar when we got home.
We didn’t have everything you’d normally eat with a Full English, but he tells me it wasn’t too shabby.
What he got: scrambled eggs, toast, “bacon” (and by bacon, English folks mean something more like country ham), and baked beans. I know. Baked beans for breakfast. Don’t get me started.
What he didn’t get: sausages, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, black pudding. I would tell you what black pudding is, but then I would have to throw up, and I just cleaned the bathroom.