The breakfast that brought me home.
Here's the breakfast that brought me home.
The year was 2008. I was living in Texas, with a dream to move back to the Pacific Northwest. I was a newlywed and my husband was in school full time. We were broke as a joke. But I felt the pull of the greens and grays and dark blues of my childhood and cashed in all of the frequent flier miles I had been hoarding for years.
My destination? Portland.
Now, this was a few years before a certain TV show made Portland a Mecca for hipsters. This was before the gold-rush level of out-of-state folks began flocking here. It was still weird, still crusty, still amusingly pretentious. On that water spring day in 2008, I stepped off the plane to a double rainbow arching over the Columbia river, that was it for me. I was a goner. I began making a plan to get back to my roots.
Those roots involve food, of course. I had dreams of brunching in my cozy fleece and well-worn jeans, sipping black coffee and watching the rain fall gently, whilst waiting for my hearty breakfast and planning my afternoon hike. Because this world is a very small place, I ran into an old friend in a bookstore, and because we waited tables together in a different life, I knew she would be the best person to ask about brunch-y places. She gave me her suggestion, and I headed there the next morning. I was ready to live my brunch dreams.
I donned my NorthFace high-collared fleece, my favorite pair of jeans, and sneakers. I packed a book of poetry, my journal, and headed out to this magical breakfast spot.
It took me 30 minutes to find a parking spot. Then I put my name on a very long list for a table. The only place to wait was outside in the pelting, cold rain. For an hour. When I finally was seated, it was in the far back by the bathroom. This was not a fantasy; it was a Very Real Experience.
Because I had ample time to peruse the menu while slowly drowning for an hour, I knew exactly what I wanted: Oatmeal Brûlée. Berries, oats, and a sugary crust seemed like the perfect antidote. I sipped my coffee, read my book, and when my meal finally made its way to the table, I almost cried. I cracked the sugar crust, took a bite, and then I actually DID cry. Huge, crocodile tears because it was good and this food tasted the way the city felt. It was home.
I also burned the shit out of my tongue because I have no patience.
I spent the next three years trying to perfect that oatmeal brûlée and get back to Oregon permanently. Both happened after much planning, tweaking, failing, and strokes of good fortune. Here's the breakfast that brought me home:
Ingredients:
1 cup frozen blueberries
1/2 cup regular oats
1/2 cup milk of your choice
1/4 cup water
1 Tbsp butter
1/2 tsp ground coriander
2 tsp sugar
Directions:
In an oven-safe bowl, layer blueberries, then oats. (I suggest watching the video because it's easier when you see it.) Sprinkle ground coriander on top of oats, then pour water and milk over the oats. Be sure to distribute the liquid as evenly as possible. Add your butter, and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes.
Remove your bowl from the oven and sprinkle with sugar. Grab your hand-held torch and burn the sugar. Make sure all of it is heated and lightly caramelized. You might scorch a few oats, but don't worry. They taste amazing.
Now, I know you are super impatient but wait for the sugar crust to harden. This takes about five minutes. Make yourself some coffee, get your favorite Mary Oliver collection of poems and dig in.
