Story Weekend: Breakfast
What’s your breakfast story? (this picture’s making me hungry. . . )
If you’re new to Story Weekend, here’s how it works: I pick a theme and you share something from your life that relates to that theme, however you interpret it. Thanks to all of you who’ve contributed. As always, there are a few “rules”:
▪ The story must be true
▪ Try to keep it under 100 words. Embrace the challenge! That’s about six or seven lines in the comment form. I want others to read your story, and most people tend to skip if it’s too long. I know how tough it is to “write tight” but I hope you’ll accept this as a challenge.
When our children were small, we took a trip to Branson, Missouri. Our favorite meal was always breakfast. We chose a great breakfast cafe. The waitress came to take our orders. Our three girls were old enough to order for themselves. When she came to the youngest , Amy, and asked for her order, it was eggs, bacon and biscuits. “How do you want your eggs?” she asked. Amy looked up, excited and wide-eyed, and answered, “Busted!” I had always referred to them at home this way, so she thought that was the correct term. The waitress laughed and so did we; this story always comes up whenever we breakfast together to this day.
The one meal the O’Brien family ate together was breakfast on Sundays. After the priest said, “Deo Gratias, ite Missa est”, meaning the Mass was over, my five siblings and I were carted home, told to wash our hands, and sit for breakfast. Thinking he was in for a treat, our dog, Captain placed himself strategically by my feet. What Captain didn’t know was that head chef on this particular Sunday would be our Dad, who would be attempting French Toast for the very first time. He had no clue that flipping the toast was required to cook it all the way through. Each time my father turned back to the stove, I lowered my plate for Captain to lick it clean. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Dad how awful the toast was so Captain had extra helpings. That poor baby was sick for days. To this day, I feel badly about it. And to this day, I can’t even look at French Toast, let alone eat it.
Mama told me this story about me, just the other day. I don’t remember it, but I’m sure it happened. When we were kids (brothers and sisters) we lived on our family farm and in the summer we worked all day hoeing cotton. After quitting time and our bath, we’d get our second wind and play like maniacs until suppertime or bedtime. We slept like the dead through the night and sometimes we’d be so tired we couldn’t stay awake until supper. According to Mama, I went to sleep before supper–she wouldn’t let us go to bed without eating–and she woke me up to eat. I staggered into the kitchen, a snarl on my face, looked at the table and said, “Beans for breakfast????”
When our parents were having a hard time financially, we would sometimes have breakfast food for dinner. Johnnycake was one of my favorite meals! I am sure my mother was worried, but she was making the best of things and providing me with a happy memory.
When I got married I couldn’t cook, I hated cooking. Well maybe I could scramble an egg. We eloped to Texas. We came home two weeks later and lived with my parents. I still couldn’t cook. My husband was perplexed. Then one morning I cooked his breakfast (barely) with my mother instructing me in stentorian tones as Barry watched. As we went to our cars to go to work he smiled, kissed me and said “I understand.” I loved him. It’s 44 years later. I still hate to cook.
My family took a trip to Macinac island and my aunt and uncle who don’t have any kids and are used to being alone decided we should eat breakfast at a fancy hotel. So that’s exactly what we did- mind you my parents never took us out to eat, not because we didn’t behave but because we ate dinners at home. My brother who’s 6 reaches for a pitcher of water and spills the entire thing all over my uncles crotchal region. He was angry, but it was pretty funny.
I started an annual “I love my friends brunch”. Best girl time and talks are over coffee. Nothing better than starting the day with laughter and friends. Everyone wears lounge wear; 9am breakfast ended at 2:45pm! We love breakfast. Everyone brought a dish to share. Sharing food, drink, stories and friendship. Life’s simple pleasures in Upstate NY! Next year will be the third annual.
The tradition at our house for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day was breakfast in bed. The hubby always got a great breakfast of sausage, eggs, biscuits, gravy coffee and orange juice because I helped our three kids cook it. However, I had to endure his laughter while I ate cold limp toast, soggy cereal, orange juice and a little vase of dandelions! He didn’t help at all.