Hashbrowns
Doug takes a firm stand on an ordinary breakfast item, and greets an old friend
Previously on Between Corners: Charlotte visits Doug in the Grand Canyon and learns that pockets can be important
“How about some breakfast?” Doug half-shouted toward the bedroom as he emerged from the shower.
“Love some,” came the faint reply.
Doug dressed and padded down to the kitchen. From the pantry he grabbed two large russet potatoes. From the refrigerator, a carton of eggs. He washed the potatoes, then pulled his box grater from a cabinet. He grated the unpeeled potatoes into a glass mixing bowl, filled it with cold water, and set it aside.
A few minutes later, Charlotte drifted sleepily down the stairs wearing a flannel nightgown and sheepskin slippers. She walked up to Doug, eyes still half-closed, and gave him a hug. With a free hand, he returned it and kissed her forehead.
“Morning, you,” he said. “Looks like someone needs coffee.”
Mumbled reply. “Yes please.”
Charlotte sat at the counter with her latte and began to perk up.
Doug drained the potatoes, squeezed them dry in a clean kitchen towel, dumped them back into the bowl, and ran the microwave for 90 seconds. While the potatoes warmed, he scooped a generous spoonful of lard into a cast-iron skillet and turned on the gas beneath it. The lard melted and began to sizzle.
“Lard?” Charlotte asked.
“More flavor than vegetable oil. Besides, how often do you see me use it?”
“Hardly ever.”
Into the hot skillet went the potatoes, plus a little salt and pepper. With a spatula, he carefully shaped two mounds, pressing them flat.
“Looks good,” Charlotte said approvingly.
“You have no idea.”
“Why is that?”
“Because these are not the crummy, over-seasoned ‘breakfast potatoes’ restaurants serve these days,” he replied. “Hash browns are the only potatoes worth having for breakfast. Breakfast potatoes are a fraud.”
Charlotte laughed softly, taken aback by his faintly absurd certainty. “I see.”
Doug flipped the hash browns, one side now nicely browned, then turned on the heat beneath a nonstick skillet. After sixty seconds, butter. Then the four eggs.
The smell of eggs mingling with potatoes soon had Charlotte’s stomach rumbling.
After another minute the eggs’ edges curled and began to color. Doug took his spatula and flipped hash browns onto plates he had warmed, then slid on the eggs to form a friendly food alliance.
“Madam,” he said ceremonially.
Charlotte accepted the plate gratefully. “This smells divine, Douglas.”
Doug began to wolf down his food. Charlotte watched him, then swirled egg onto her fork and stabbed some hash browns.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh my goodness, this is incredible!”
“Potatoes, lard, a little salt. Magic. The secret is the box grater. The shredded potatoes get crispy on the outside, stay soft on the inside.” Smirks. “Kind of like you.”
Charlotte almost choked on her eggs. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You are incorrigible.” But she couldn’t stop laughing.
“I know. Bad joke.”
Doug’s phone suddenly chimed. He looks at it.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“What is it?”
“My friend Christopher. Haven’t seen him in years. He’s in town!”
“Can he stop by?”
“I’ll ask.” Doug texts. In a few seconds another chime. “He can! Around 5 this afternoon. When do you get home from work?”
“Just one client today. By 4 I’m sure.”
“Perfect. Not feeding him. Just a beer. Hey, you’d better get ready for work.”
Charlotte looked at her watch. “Oh gosh – you’re right! I’ll go shower.”
She trotted up the stairs, and Doug could hear the water turn on. In twenty minutes, she was back. Hair damp, but otherwise put together: Well-worn jeans, sturdy boots, a plaid flannel shirt. Her trusty Stetson was hooked near the door.
She gave Doug a kiss on the cheek. “Fabulous breakfast, honey. I’ll see you later.”
Then she was out the door, hat on head.
Doug looked out the kitchen window and watched her leave, waving as her blue Ford Ranger rolled down the gravel drive. She waved back.
An hour later he was at The Feed station, loading a 60-gallon galvanized feed trough into the Ford. He checked his watch. He was close to Charlotte’s therapy center on Burton Road. Maybe he could stop by, he thought.
Charlotte was lucky. She had inherited a small ranch from her grandparents, and while she had sold the ranch itself, she held a lease on the corral and stables for three horses. Plus, unbeknownst to her, Doug had made an anonymous $15,000 donation when she started. That staked her to more saddles and tack, and even an assistant. She had no idea where the money came from. He preferred it that way.
Doug arrived and parked a little out of the way. He walked up to the corral and rested his arms on the corral rail, near a middle-aged couple. Charlotte was in the center of the paddock, talking to a slight young girl with long brown hair parted down the center. Doug could just hear her.
“Remember, Claire, everyone starts somewhere, and we’ll take things at a pace that makes you comfortable,” Charlotte said in a calm voice. “You’re going to do great.”
The girl seemed to lean into her words.
“Wait here a minute, honey.”
Charlotte left the paddock and returned a minute later with Daisy, a calm eight-year-old dappled mare.
“This is Daisy,” Charlotte said, “Do you want to say hello? Here, say ‘hello’ with this carrot.”
The girl took the carrot and approached the horse. “Hello, Daisy,” she said, and offered the carrot. Daisy serenely accepted the gifted carrot.
The couple next to Doug stirred. “God, she’s good,” said the man. Doug realized they were Claire’s parents, and they were talking about Charlotte.
The woman placed her arm over the man’s shoulder and leaned into him.
By now the girl had Daisy by the halter and was leading her around the paddock, Charlotte close by her, murmuring quietly. Claire’s nervous smile turned into a broad grin.
After a glance at the transfixed parents, Doug turned and walked back to his truck. As he did, he heard Daisy’s measured clip-clop. He smiled.
Good, indeed.
Back home, he lugged the heavy trough to the barn. Not long afterward, Charlotte’s Ranger wheeled back into the drive. Doug walked up to the truck’s open window as she stopped.
“Hello, cowgirl,” he said affectionately as he leaned against the door frame. “You have skills.”
Charlotte looked puzzled. “What?”
“You didn’t see me? At the paddock?”
Charlotte stammered. “Uh, no. I was with a client.”
“I know. Claire. And she ate you up with a spoon. Her parents were thrilled.”
Charlotte’s posture shifted. “Oh! I didn’t see you.”
“I didn’t want you to. Come on in, Christopher will be here soon.”
Charlotte climbed out of the truck. They walked into the house, holding hands.
Doug was watching news when he heard a car pull up. “He’s here!” he yelled, sitting up and pulling on boots. He walked to the door and opened it, looking out eagerly.
“Hey man! What a surprise!”
Christopher uncoiled himself from his rented Tahoe. He was taller than Doug, by maybe two inches. Not broad, but full across the chest. Trim blond beard with a trace of grey. Brown eyes framed by nascent crow’s feet. “Doug!” he shouted.
The two hugged one another, Doug clapping his friend on the back. “Too long, man. How are ya?”
“I am good, sir. So, this is your humble abode?”
“It is what it is. Come in for a beer. I want you to meet someone.”