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Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Sunday Morning Memories

preparing scrambled eggs

As I was trying to think of a good subject to write that would give you a new Glimpse of My World. I thought what would be better than writing about the first thing one does in the morning, well besides waking up, after beating the snooze button into compliance. I am speaking of what I have heard all of my life is the most important meal of the day, and that is breakfast.

I remember as a child, every Sunday morning was family time at the dining table. Mom would get up and yell at us kids to wake up and come eat breakfast. She began by making oatmeal, the old-fashioned kind that not many people eat anymore. As I would slowly wake up, the smells of eggs cooking and toast began to pervade the air. Soon bacon or ham joined in the chorus invading our olfactory senses. One by one the three of us kids filed into the kitchen to find our place at the table. The aroma of Folger’s coffee percolating was the ending in the attack on our senses as my Dad sat at his place at the table and sipped slowly on the magic brew. Sundays were the only day we all ate together. During the week, Dad had already left for work hours earlier than our wakeup time. And he stumbled in soon after we had said our good nights and went to bed.

Some of my best memories are of my Dad during Sunday breakfast. I remember his laughter as one of my brothers cracked a joke. Or how he would push back from the table to let one of our pets lay in his lap. More often than not it was the cat that he said he hated but would calmly sit there and stroke. My Dad was an animal whisperer. I never saw an animal that didn’t gravitate towards my Dad. I remember dragging home every stray I met on my walk home from school and how Dad would always find a home for them. But I digress. We are talking breakfast here; not the story of the garbage man/animal whisperer.

As I got older I took over some of the breakfast making duties. I started with making enough toast to feed an army, then I learned how to make the oatmeal. I graduated to eggs and how to make the perfect pot of coffee soon after. The last subject in my breakfast lessons was the cooking of the meats. Why it was the last is the simple fact that I didn’t want to get splattered with hot grease. I overcame that obstacle with the eggs but still to this day hate to cook bacon. I don’t mind the sausage or ham but bacon is a pain in the butt. By the time I was a teenager, I was chief cook and bottle washer in the house. Mom never liked to cook and loved handing me the golden spatula.

A plate filled with fried eggs and bacon.

In this day and age when the family meal has broken down to a quick hi and bye as you pass on the way to the refrigerator, it seems like as the family unit eating together has ended, also mankind's treatment of each other has eroded away. Maybe if we take at least one day a week and slow down enough to share a meal with our family, that maybe just maybe, it will lead to a stronger sense of community within our lives. In our rush to do everything, it seems as if for one moment we could take a break. To put away our phones, tablets, anything that can distract us away from learning how the week is going for those around us. Not just the cursory retelling we have now, where people ask you the question and if you can spare the time to look up from your electronic device, the other person has lost interest that fast.

This morning when I woke up, I felt like making breakfast for my family. As I stood over the stove, there were some staples from the breakfasts of the past missing. There was no bacon, ham, or sausage. No coffee brewing, just a teapot heating water for my cappuccino. The oatmeal stayed put in the cabinet. This morning the menu is simple. Eggs and toast. As I stood there I remembered those old days of family camaraderie as we sat around an old beaten up wooden table. We didn’t have much back then but we did have each other. Today I just called out each person's name and they slowly found their way to the kitchen to grab their food and then disappeared. No one sits at a dinner table anymore in this house. We all live separate from each other but under one roof. The past is long gone.

We don’t even own a dining table. It is just understood that no one would sit around it so why have one take up space. Just another thing to slip into the past. Do they even still sell dining tables, I sometimes wonder?

Once the meal was cooked and I gathered up my plate and cup. I felt my Dad’s presence. It felt like he had been standing there watching me cook and he wanted me to remember times past. He wanted me to remember the lazy Sundays where a family joined together to share a meal and a laugh. I wish those days would return. I leave you with one wish that you love fully and laugh often. Until next time.

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