Yeah, I know it’s only Tuesday but dig these apple pancakes over at Smitten Kitchen.

There are few things in this world that are as essential, and as satisfying, as a good bakery.

This coming from someone who doesn’t have one anywhere near him.

[Photo Credit: Dina. M]

Saturday mornin’ brehf’st

[photo credit: foodaddict]

I loved to eat breakfast at my grandparent’s home in Belgium when I was a kid. I spent a few weeks with them during the summer, alternating years with my twin sister and younger brother. Bonmamon and Bonpapa lived in a farm house in a small village between Brussels and Waterloo. Bonmamon made sure that we visited all of our relatives during my stay there so we traveled around the country, but I preferred when we stayed home. The days passed leisurely and were based around lunch and dinner, and late afternoon tea. There was always the potential for something scary to be served at those big meals–and I was expected to eat what was put in front of me–but breakfast was safe. It consisted of a cup of tea, often Earl Grey, and fresh bread from a local bakery. At the time, there weren’t many quality bakeries in New York, not as many as you find today, so good, simple bread was something to cherish.

I ate slice after slice of bread, butter and jam. Bonmamon made all sorts of jams and jellies but red currant stood out. Maybe it was because it was sweet and tart. Back home in the States, my mom also made red currant jelly and to this day, I love it. Because of how it tastes, of course, but also because it takes me back to a far away place where they spoke French and I felt welcome, like I was home.

Our man in Paris, David Lebovitz tries his hand at Red Currant Jam.

Dig it.

Fuh Breahfist.

I’m good to go.

[Photo Credit: My Recipes]

Now a melon is something I want to like more than I actually do. I used to dislike them but I can’t say that is true anymore. And yeah, have had it with cured ham and that’s a winning combination. But I never crave a melon. Watermelon, sure, but a regular old melon? Nah. It’s just…”eh,” for me.

That said, this picture makes me want to like ’em.

Dough! Oh My…DOUGH!

DOUGH Donuts: A Far Cry From The Old Fashioned from SkeeterNYC on Vimeo.

I am fortunate to have a friend like Bags, a guy who likes to wander around with one of his many cameras and shoot the city. Today is dedicated to Bags. Keep ’em coming, Hoss, you make the Banter a richer place.

Let’s start with what a co-worker calls “brehfess.” Doughnut, anyone?

Brunch at Tipsy Parson in Manhattan.

Fabulous fatness. Mmm, mmm, good.

It is dark and wet this morning so let’s get right to some nourishment of the sinful kind. The New York Times gives a tour of the best doughnut shops in town.

[Photo Credit: NY Mag and Good Point]

Serious Eats gives us the best oatmeal in New York.

Come to think of it, I don’t know that I’ve ever ordered oatmeal at a restaurant, but after checking out this slideshow I might have to give it a go…

Thank you, once again, Serious Eats.

Quick hit from Snootsville:

While I’ve always been partial to Tazo’s “Awake” tea, Harney and Sons English Breakfast tea might be even better.

Yo, check out this recipe for homemade Nutella over at the most cool blog, I made that!

Or if your fat ass is feelin’ lazy, just go out and cop one of these:

I poured the milk on my sons’ Rice Crispies this morning. “Who wants to hear the cereal talk?” Turns out, both of them wanted to hear the cereal talk, so breakfast was a smashing success. (Is there any meal, except maybe pizza, that your children do not have to duped into eating?)

As they sat there at the table, I paced back and forth as the coffee brewed on the counter. “Today’s lesson is about not giving up,” I told them. “Let’s not worry about losing, because if you actually lose, there will be plenty of time to worry about it after the fact.”

“What?” asked the three-year old. He says “What?” very sweetly, but it’s hard to distinguish whether he doesn’t understand or if he just wasn’t listening. This time, it was probably both.

“I’m talking about the Yankees,” I said. “Yankees!” said the three year-old. “Boom!” said the 21-month old.

“Yeah, the Yankees need more boom. They lost last night,” I said.

“I like De-rak Jeee-tuh and Mar-i-an-oh,” said the three-year old. “Me too.”

“Snap, crackle, pop,” said the cereal.

When we went out the door for school, I asked them if they wanted to wear their Yankee hats or their Stegosaurus hats. “I want my Yankee hat,” said the three-year old. “And me,” said the 21-month old. I checked the temperature, 48 degrees. Hmm, yeah, we don’t need to cover their ears this morning.

“Where’s your Yankee hat, Daddy?” asked the three-year old. I went into the bedroom and couldn’t find it. I grabbed my 1936 Cooperstown Collection version from the pile on my dresser and slammed it down on my head. “How about that one?”

“Bay-ball,” said the 21-month old.

“Snap, crackle, pop,” I said. “Let’s go Yank-ees.” And we walked out the door and into the first morning that it really felt like October.

Breakfast with Bittman.

[Photo Credit: Evan Sung]

If you can ever find this stuff, do yourself a favor…it’s a treat not to miss.

Just ask David Lebovitz.

I was in elementary school during the last, sad years of my parents’ marriage. We had moved out of New York City to Westchester and lived on a street that was more country than suburban. I had a friend named Kevin who lived up the road in a big, dilapidated house. He kept a water-logged copy of Hustler under the front porch–my first glimpse of pornography. Next to the house was an enormous barn. They had horses and Kevin’s mother and his sisters gave riding lessons in a big rink next to the house. The father had recently died.

I remember being inside that house wondering, What happened? Kevin’s mother was polite, looked respectable, and went to work in the City. But the house was a mess. It smelled of cat urine. There were cats everywehre. It was cold in winter and the floors were covered with newspapers soaked with cat urine and covered with cat shit. I navigated the upstairs corridors in fear, quickly moving to Kevin’s room, which had a small TV where we once watched ABC’s Monday Night Baseball.

It was as if after Kevin’s father died, everything fell apart. At least that’s how I imaged it as I lived in dread that my parent’s marriage would not last.

There were only two smells that cut through the stench. One was the sweet smell of shampoo in Kevin’s sister’s feathered hair. It could have been perfume too. They listened to rock records, wore tight jeans and seemed so grown up. All they had to do is pass by and the air was cut by a rush of their wonderful and mysterious femininity. The other came from the kitchen. It was a cold room too and the fridge always seemed bare. There, Kevin would toast a few slices of white bread, spread them evenly with butter and then shake equal parts cinnamon and sugar on top of them.

His cinnamon toast was reminder that even when life is filled with disappointment, and seems to be caving in around you, when there is no money for indulgences, there can be something simple and satisfying that keeps you going.