The Art of love.
Growing up, for me, was an experience of love and hate. I loved the mornings and hated what the rest
of the day might bring. Each day I knew
there would be a breakfast which no restaurant could produce. Did you know fixing breakfast is an art.
The arrival of cold cereals put breakfast on the back
burner. It seems people began taking the
easy way out. It sped things up. Moms were convinced the kids were getting
their proteins and calcium in cereal. Only
grapenuts, shredded wheat (not the sugary little things) and raisin bran made
the scene at our house. Then, it was for
times when Mom had to get all six of us, herself, and dad out the door at the
same time.
A weekday breakfast at our house always had Juice, usually
orange. Some days, to our delight we had
grapefruit. Each grapefruit halve was
already segmented so you could dip your spoon in and grab a succulent
piece. Mom had already sprinkled a
teaspoon of sugar on the top. You could
see the crystals glistening. There was
a method to this because it prevented us from adding more sugar.
The “Fruit” of choice of the day was followed by an egg, 1
slice of bacon and one piece of toast.
There was usually strawberry Jam or grape Jelly for the toast. (No matter how much you wanted it you didn’t
ask for a second egg.) On Days we didn’t
have eggs in some form it was usually a cooked cereal. All of us loved Cream of rice. I don’t remember having rice very much. If we did, it was usually Mom’s version of
Spanish rice and it was served at dinner.
The best breakfasts were on the weekends. We never knew if dad would be helping with
the cooking. If he did, it was making
pancakes. He loved to make and eat
pancakes.
Mom went all out on the weekends. Sometimes we had fried potatoes with onions
along with our Bacon and eggs. We always
knew if dad was going to be at breakfast there would be grapefruit for
sure. Sometimes on the weekend Mom would
make French Toast. This was another time
we always wanted to have more but there was a limit of two slices.
This is not about the art of cooking; in our house it was the
art of love. No matter how mom felt, no
matter how tired she may have been from staying up making our costumes for Halloween,
we always woke up to the smell of coffee perking, knowing it was that time to
get up, dress, and come to breakfast.
The table was already set with tablecloth and napkins and
what ever dish ware would be needed. No
one had to wait, the food magically appeared. No one worried that someone got more than another,
everything, each plate was masterfully the same. The Plates were always preheated, so the food
wouldn’t get cold on the way to the table.
Years later when I visited, I watched her magically prepare
the mornings repast. She didn’t have to
do it, we were grown and could get it for her, she took and gave happiness in
the giving.
For Seventy years, rarely a day missed, she fixed breakfast for our dad.
Through an everyday act of living, she made it into an Art of loving.
Today April 11, 2022, would have been their Seventy-eight
wedding anniversary.
cooking, poetry, prose and a little gardening,
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