Breakfast . . . Your Way

When my children were little, their Gramps would cook pancakes on Sundays. This giant of a man--an engineer-- who never touched a stove or pot holder (or dish rag) 6 days a week, became a chef. Made from scratch buttermilk and graham flour flapjacks (egg whites folded in at just the exact moment), heated maple syrup, oven-warmed plates,  little golden-brown sausage links--and hungry grandchildren lined up. Heavenly scents, chatter, clatter . . . tradition, lifelong memories.

Here at the Calvert house (where it's just the two of us), daily breakfast is also a manly effort: oatmeal, cooked by my husband. Not the intstant, tear-open packet-add-hot-water type, but the wonderful heavily textured rolled oats--organic these days. The kind of oatmeal that requires watching, stirring . . . and can boil over or stick to the pan if you don't. But worth the drama, regardless.

And the basic fixings, too:  almond milk, splash of real maple syrup . . .

Fresh fruit:

And finally add bananas, a little sprinkle of chopped nuts (or even Grape Nuts cereal) for crunch:

Not to say that we don't indulge now and then. I LOVE eating breakfast out. And, even though we no longer eat meat, I still have a hankering for eggs. Especially Eggs Benedict Florentine: English muffin, fresh spinach, tomato slice, perfectly poached eggs, and a beautiful slather of lemony Hollandaise sauce.

So THIS is our new tradition, Sundays after church:

Complete with a champagne mimosa:

I'm sure that you can guess that there is a breakfast scene in my (soon to release!) novel, RESCUE TEAM.

In this snippet, we find hero Wes Tanner and his mother eating outside on the family's Hill Country Texas ranch:

***

“What’s that tune?” Wes’s mom covered the serving platter with a cloth napkin and settled opposite him at the porch table.

“Hmm?” He realized he’d been lost in thought. 

“That song.” She gazed at Wes over the rim of her coffee cup. The morning breeze wafted scents of sausage and country fried potatoes—a testament to Mrs. Tanner’s kitchen. “You were humming. It sounded like ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”

“Probably was.” He smiled, warmth spreading through his chest at the memory. “Heard it last night. In Austin. ” Wes picked up his coffee knowing she’d wait forever. Patience could have been Miranda Tanner’s middle name. He released the breath he’d been holding. “I like her, Mom.”

“I figured.” She left it at that, respectful of his privacy as always, though her caring expression was as effective as the huge welcome mat outside the Tanners’ door. And a walloping dose of truth serum.

“Kate’s different,” he told her. Then was at a complete loss for words. How could he explain Kate to his mom? He wasn’t sure he understood any of this himself. “I mean, she’s pretty, of course—that’s obvious. Smart. And funny, too.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I like that she’s so determined and independent. Strong. And tries like the devil not to need anybody. But . . .”

“But you think she might need you?” There was something in his mother’s eyes that Wes had seen before. That day she watched him slide down the Braxton well to rescue the little girl. 

“I’m not sure.” 

***

So how about YOU? Who fixes breakfast at your house? Cereal? Eggs? Sunday tradition? Breakfast out?