Cliff and I usually eat a small breakfast around 7 A.M. By small, I mean cereal (the one-serving size specified on the box); oatmeal or cream of wheat; or sometimes, an egg, a couple pieces of bacon, and toast. Then we eat "dinner" at noon, because I grew up calling the noon meal dinner;and a light supper.
This morning I told Cliff I was going to make pancakes and sausage for the grandson and his sweetie when they came back in from morning deer-hunting. "Go ahead and have a small bowl of raisin bran," I said, "That will tide you over until they come in from hunting, and then you can eat pancakes with them."
Granddaughter Monica saw me mention on Facebook that I was making pancakes and reminded me it's her birthday. Rather than have five people standing in line waiting for pancakes all at once, I suggested she and her sister come earlier and I'd make pancakes just for them; then when the hunters came in, I would cook another round for them and Cliff.
This all worked out well, but I wasn't hungry and chose not to eat pancakes. I'm not as pancake-crazy as the rest of the family seems to be.
Cliff went out to the shop. Along about noon, I realized I was very hungry. You know, when you're hungry, you think of all your favorite foods, and I thought of Oklahoma Joe's (now known as Joe's Kansas City). And yet, how very foolish to go on a weekend to a place so popular, there is always a waiting line. Also foolish because we are just recovering from Montezuma's revenge, given to us by the sweetest little toddler in the world, and Cliff is a little nervous about getting too far from home today.
Then I started thinking about PT's Family Restaurant, just fifteen miles away. They make a wonderful pork tenderloin! But no, it just wouldn't be right to make Cliff take me for a tenderloin when he wouldn't even be hungry for another two or three hours. Keep in mind he was safely in the shop working on an old Allis Chalmers tractor, so he had no idea what was going through my mind.
By this time my stomach was growling, and my more practical side took over. "Dummy," I said to myself, "there are pork tenderloins in the freezer from that hog we butchered. Fix yourself a tenderloin. You know how to bread them and do them right."
Yes, I do talk to myself like that. A lot.
I half-thawed a package of four small tenderloins, pried them apart, put two in the refrigerator for later, and breaded the other two, then fried them. My tenderloin sandwich was delicious, with Miracle Whip, onions, and hamburger dills dressing it up. I fried two because I know my husband: He will come in the house in a couple of hours, say, "What's that I smell?" and I will say, "Oh, I had a tenderloin for dinner."
His answer will probably be, "And you didn't fix one for me?"
Of course I did.
I do believe this is the first time in my life I ever made myself a tenderloin sandwich just because I wanted one.
Update: The two hunters just came in looking for lunch. The other two tenderloins are being cooked now.