Tara and I went out to breakfast on Sunday morning before running errands. I got a farmer’s omelette, which was just a Denver omelette (diced ham, onions, and bell peppers) plus mushrooms. It was delicious, but I don’t get the name.
First of all, I don’t know any farmers growing mushrooms. (To be fair, I don’t know any farmers period, but that’s a moot point.) The vast majority of farm crops around here are either corn or soybeans. And sure, mushroom farms exist, but they’re not exactly a dime a dozen. Google says there are “a few notable farms” in Wisconsin versus 15,000 corn farms and 11,000 soybean growers. So, the name is misleading. If I’m ordering a “farmer’s omelette,” I’d expect it to include corn or soybeans.
Neither of which would work in an omelette, I suspect.
Alternatively, the chef could be a middle-aged man wearing a flannel shirt, overalls, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, maybe chewing on a blade of grass while cooking the eggs. But this was one of those joints (River Front Family Restaurant) with a clear view to the kitchen. None of the cooks fit that description, and there were no tractors in the parking lot either, so I’m still confused. Especially since the name of the restaurant is 100% literal: it does sit right next to the Rock River and it is family owned.
I guess, like Stonehenge, this is one of those enduring mysteries that will never be solved. Don’t get me wrong; River Front Family Restaurant is fantastic – clean and bright, friendly staff, solid comfort food, reasonable prices – and breakfast was great. Nothing makes an omelette like mushrooms* IMHO. Honestly, I can never go back to a regular Denver omelette again. And I’m a Broncos fan, so that’s saying a lot!
* I should specify they need to be fresh mushrooms. I ordered an omelette in Pendleton, Oregon, once that was chock full of canned mushrooms. I actually laughed out loud at the audacity, food snob that I am.
Speaking of farmers, we were driving by one of the 15,000 corn farms in our state one day when Scott and Esther were visiting, and I found myself staring wistfully at the barn, the verdant green fields, the equipment, all of it.
“God, I wish I were a farmer!” I said out loud.
This elicited a hearty round of laughter from the back seat. “That’s hard work, bro!” Scott pointed out.
You know what else is hard work? Yanking weeds. But I’m out there practically every damn weekend, rain or shine, on my hands and knees, gettin’ ‘er done. I doubted that argument would land, so I replied instead, “Yes, but it’s honest work.”
Which is a really stupid thing to say, as if the integrity of a job has any bearing on its difficulty. Besides, it’s not like I’m embezzling funds from CheeseGov or doing anything dishonest there. And look, I know that farming doesn’t mean sitting on a tractor all day, gazing out over your back forty. It’s physically demanding, completely at the mercy of the weather, prone to market fluctuations, and heavily subsidized by the government. I’m sure I’m romanticizing it, but yeah, there’s a certain appeal to that whole lifestyle. Maybe in a past life I was a farmer. Maybe in a parallel life I am a farmer. Maybe in a future life I’ll be a farmer. But in this life, I’m a state government employee with an eye for writing and grammar.
And Tara’s got a bitchin’ garden happening, so we’ll be harvesting crops of our own soon. Just on a much smaller scale.
The Beauty was Worth the Sweat
After the farmer’s omelette, we drove to Janesville. Even though the heat and humidity were once again (or still; we’ve never really gotten any relief) brutal, we decided to stroll around the Rotary Botanical Gardens.
You know what? It was worth the sweat. I always enjoy these gardens.
Besides, all that strolling around in the hot sun made an afternoon in the basement watching movies feel that much more rewarding.
Do you have a favorite omelette? What alternate career do you long for? Are you guilty of over-romanticizing anything?
Mark My Words 
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