Christmas Morning Challah Bread Strata
INGREDIENTS
- 1 pound challah, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 8 to 9 cups)
- 7 large eggs
- 1/2 cup milk
- 1 tablespoon butter, melted
- 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
- salt and pepper, to taste
- 1/2 pound maple flavored breakfast sausage links, diced
- 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese
- 5 oz. crumbled goat cheese
- 2 tablespoons honey, divided
COOKING DIRECTIONS
- Cut the Challah bread into 1-inch cubes and layer in the bottom of a small bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, olive oil, salt, pepper, and butter, and pour over bread cubes. Cover and place in refrigerator overnight.
- In the morning, preheat oven to 350° and grease a 9×13 baking dish. Dice and brown the sausage links in a skillet over medium heat.
- Layer the bottom of the 9×13 baking dish with half of the Challah bread cube mixture and half of the cheese. Repeat a second layer. Crumble goat cheese over the strata and drizzle 1 tablespoon of honey over the top.
- Bake uncovered for 45 minutes, or until cheese is brown and bubbly. Drizzle the remaining honey over the cooked strata and serve.
Serves: 4-6, or one fat 8 year-old, a tired emotionally drained wife, and a shitty drunk husband
There’s something to be said about an easy make-ahead Christmas breakfast, but the only thing that comes to mind is This tastes like shit. That’s what my 26 year-old father said, anyway, before he finished his third screwdriver of the morning and threw the small glass plate full of puffy breakfast strata against the wall on December 25. He only took three bites, but really my mother should have remembered he hates sausage links and prefers scrambled eggs over some jiggly fucking mess of a breakfast. I thought Mom was a great cook and downed two fat squares of the strata huddled in the corner of my bedroom while Mom dealt with the rising tide in the living room. The tide sucked her in, though, like it always did (on its way out) and I would grow into never forgiving myself because I thought it fit me. Santa expected better, expects the opposite of cowardice, whatever the fuck that is, but I knew I didn’t have it.
I loved the way we decorated the tree that year, and although Mom said it was beautiful, I knew we should have used regular popcorn for the garland instead of caramel crunch, for obvious reasons. When I finished making a racecar with 246 little pieces of my new 450-piece Erector set, I ate a third piece of strata, savoring the maple-flavored breakfast sausage. The car was powered by a rubber band that wound around little cogs connected to the front and rear axles. I pulled back on the sleek frame, heard the click click click, and watched as nothing happened, the sound of Mom packing our bags floating through the house.
A Mouthful of Fiction 