I had every intention of writing about WD-40 and my mother but as usual the muse called me elsewhere. That one will have to wait.

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Breakfast

I am a breakfast cooker. I never thought about it as something more than just my lifelong routine until my grandson and several of his buds came to camp out at the dock last weekend. Owing to the fact that it was the last day of January and the low temp was predicted to hover near freezing and pointing out the real dangers of hyperthermia, I persuaded the boys to hang out at the dock as long as they wanted but to make camp in the warmth of the den downstairs.

Ron and I are early-to-bed-early-to-rise kinda folks so we hit the sack long before the teenagers did. As I was cooking breakfast for us the next morning, I knew it would be awhile before we’d see the late-to-bed-late-to-rise boys. But I knew that, whenever they emerged, I’d fry more bacon and scramble up more eggs. The ambiance of the house was still thick with the distinctly inviting aromas of freshly brewed coffee and bacon grease as I sat down with my second cup of coffee in front of what remained of our early morning fire.

I started thinking about breakfast.

While there are many people who do not eat breakfast at all, there are just as many who revere breakfast as the best meal of the day. My grandson has always loved to eat breakfast at our house. He likes the thick pepper bacon I buy. My mother-in-law’s absolute favorite meal is breakfast, though she prefers hers at the Waffle House or IHOP. I have an assorted collection of pleasant memories of breakfasts. My first tangible recollection is of the rasping sound of burnt toast being salvaged. Along with this nerve grating sound came others in tandem. My mother cooked breakfast every morning. And every morning, as she was scraping the carbon off the toast she had left under the broiler too long, she’d call out to my brother, “George!” and “George, get UP!” and “George, get dressed!” I realize now that my brother, in his teens, was not a morning person. Connecting the dots it must have had something to do with being a male teenager.

My next, most vivid, memory is the “on vacation” breakfasts we, as a family, would have during our annual trip to Birmingham to visit my grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins. Regardless the era, with the exception of modern fast food establishments, breakfast in a restaurant, cafe, or even the humblest diner is consistently a perfect experience. All of the senses are awakened upon entering. Breakfast smells like no other meal. Those who are gathered to eat breakfast are either subdued from just having slept for hours or exhausted from just having worked for hours and in need of revitalizing. This pause in human energy sets the tone and controls the noise of breakfast. Voices are held down so the musical overtones of flatware clinking against porcelain prevail over the low hum of conversation. Yes, breakfast is always either a gentle beginning of the day, or a comforting ending of a night.

And perhaps that is what sets breakfast apart from other meals–the comfort factor. Breakfast is comforting in all the ways that humans can receive comfort by the senses. Aroma, taste, warmth, encouragement, sustenance, hope, renewal of strength. I suddenly realized that I have always enjoyed cooking breakfast. I recalled that when I was old enough, I took over the job of cooking my brother’s breakfast every morning before he married and moved on. I didn’t burn the toast either. Eventually, as a homemaker, I cooked breakfast for my husband and my kids and, in time, my grandkids, when they came to sleep over. I didn’t know it but now I see that making breakfast is much more than just providing a meal; it’s a virtual hug that says, I want you to be full and fortified with renewed strength to go out and face whatever is out there laying in wait to challenge you.

Not cooking breakfast is no indicator of anything in particular, but I have now recognized that I cook breakfast because it is not only a lifelong habit but it satisfies my nurturing nature. Cozied up to my warm coffee cup, staring at the waning glow in the fireplace, I had a sudden welling up of desire to make breakfast for the whole world. It was an insane and completely illogical impulse, and I knew that, but I didn’t dismiss it or deny it the chance to explain itself. I did some vague calculations on how many eggs it would take, how many loaves of bread, butter, milk, coffee. 6 billion orders of French toast. Crazy! And then I thought about the two times recorded in the New Testament of Jesus feeding thousands with a handful of fishes and loaves. I wondered about the testimony those acts revealed, not only to the masses who ate, but to the disciples. I see now that it meant so much more than the miracle of just the physical feeding of the hungry. Underneath the reality of it, there is another, less recognized, but just as profound truth. Humans are designed in three parts in the image of our Father–soul, spirit and body. Feeding the body doesn’t necessarily feed the soul and spirit unless the meal is also prepared and provided with great love. I cook breakfast with great love because I know it does more than just fill up the empty belly, it also comforts and, without my having to say it, expresses completely, “I love you.”

When Hayes finally stumbled up the stairs I asked him if he wanted breakfast. HIs face, still puffy from sleep, came alive and brightened instantly. “With that good bacon?” He asked.