“Breakfast is served!” I declare, busing two plates of hash browns, fried peppers, eggs, and a bottle of ketchup onto the back patio.
Daddy looks at the food in anticipation. “Thanks for cooking,” he says. We hold hands and pray, briefly, but with joyful sincerity.
I dip the first forkful of crispy brown potato into the golden yolk of my fried egg, and taste bliss.
“When you were cooking, I noticed how comforting the smell of breakfast is,” Daddy says. “It’s different than other meals.”
I take a sip of my tea, which is always conducive to good thoughts.
“Well, normally we don’t cook breakfast, because we have places to go. Maybe the smell is comforting because it implies that we have time to relax and enjoy our meal.”
Later, I realize there is another reason. In my family, we cook breakfast when we are together. On a morning when Daddy’s working at home. In a familiar cabin on our vacation in Yosemite. To uphold my Pop-pop’s Christmas tradition of chipped beef on toast. While we sing, “Good morning breakfast lovers, and how are you!” at our east coast reunions.
Breakfast runs in the family.