Jet lag can be a sneaky little devil and surprisingly hard to shake. Especially when traveling from India where there is a 12 hour time change. The first week back I was fine, I would sink into a blissful, exhausted sleep at about 9pm and wake up around 8 full of energy for about 4 hours. The rest of the day sometimes went by in a blur but I knew that that blissful sleep was awaiting me so I didn’t care. I have been working on some sleeping issues this past year so a week of good sleep, and 5 days home in Calgary, was wonderful.
But this past week I have been back in Seal Beach as the jet lag really settled in, and I started training again way too soon. I was not sleeping and was exhausted. Luckily most of my housemates had their break at home so the kitchen was empty and I could do what I normally do to help get over jet lag. I cooked. Lasagna and pasta sauce, rice pudding and cookies.
The last few years breakfast has not been my thing. I always seem to struggle with eating enough, especially when we have early track sessions.
A lot of athletes eat oatmeal for breakfast. Despite its rave reviews by Every-Single-Nutritionist, oatmeal and I have had an on/off relationship over the years and currently we are soooo on a break. I know you can put all sorts of stuff on oatmeal, and you can supposedly make it taste however you want. I have tried to all. But you can’t fool me. Oatmeal is oatmeal.
Which means I am always looking for something just as healthy and filling that satisfies my fussy breakfast palette.
When we were little we would sometimes go to a place called 1886 for breakfast. They had a sandwich there called a Baxey. Basically an egg sandwich with gouda, alfalfa sprouts, eggs, green onions and a few other key ingredients I can no longer remember. Us kids always got to order an orange juice when we went there, and I think it’s the only restaurant we were ever allowed to order something other than water.
But as the prices in that small restaurant grew bigger, and as the lines grew longer, my dad did what my parents often do; he figured out how to make them at home. And for a while we would have delicious baxey’s every Sunday.
You see, my father, he loves breakfast. And he loves a good breakfast. I don’t know if he does this anymore, but in his prime he was known to eat two breakfasts. One was a bowl of his secret high fibre cereal mix that he would eat by himself immediately after waking up, and right before he took the dog out for their walk. My poor father was the only morning person in the house. After his walks I would often be woken up to the sound of his voice at 6am when he would call my grandmother on the East coast. But shortly afterwards the smell of bacon, eggs and hash browns would waft up the stairs.
But that’s not where my real problem starts at all. We didn’t eat good breakfast just on the weekends. We ate good breakfasts all week long. My parents refused to buy good cereal, (the kind of cereal that ten-year-olds think is good), and when they very occasionally would buy something good like Sugar Crisp, my brother would polish it off in an hour.
Instead, we got pancakes. Or French toast. Or eggs, easy over with the yolks still runny. We were always spoiled at breakfast. (And dinner too. But we’ll get into my mom’s cooking another time.) Except for the occasional porridge, because “It’s what horses eat so it’s good for you”, breakfast was always good.
So in honour of my dad, Breakfast is what I am looking to for comfort this week, as I slowly creep back into my normal self.