Sunday Breakfast and Dad

My Mom was the one that did the grocery shopping and cooking in our house. She planned her menus weekly and usually if you asked my Mom what was for dinner, she would know the menu a few days out, without blinking an eye. Mom rarely swayed from the normal, basic meals she was famous for in our family. Not because that is what my Mom wanted to cook, but mostly because that is what we wanted her to cook. We all had our favorite and that is what we wanted to eat. I remember my Mom reading magazines and watching TV shows about new things to cook and wanting to try different things. When she did try different things, they were always delicious, but inevitably, there were a couple of people who would not like it, and then my Mom was forced to whip up some mac and cheese or chicken noodle soup to accommodate them. It was always much easier for my Mom to just stick to the basic, square meals and without a doubt we would all finish what was on our plates.

The one meal my Mom never needed to worry about was Sunday Breakfast. This is the meal my father claimed responsibility for. We were not a church-going family, but Sundays remained very important in our household. It was the one day where we were all home together, at least in the morning. Mom and Dad got the morning paper after sleeping in a little bit. Mom would make the coffee and they would sit on the sofa and read the paper in their pajamas. We knew that this was their time alone and we usually offered them peace and quiet. Every now and then, Mom would yell something out to us in the other room. Something that she read in the paper. "Kaline, did you hear that the acceptance rate for colleges has gone down? It went from 88% to 86% in only one year! Better get those grades up!" or "Kenon, did you see that school your team played against last week has won the tournament?" Half the time, we couldn't hear her, but responded anyway. My Mom is famous for quoting things she read in the paper. One of her bumper stickers should read, "That's what they say." We never really know who "they" are and quite frankly, neither does my mother, but the information she provides is always accurate. Whenever she gave us a piece of random advice, we would question her and she would say, "That's what they say!"

Dad would let Mom finish reading the paper and he would relocate to the kitchen. He started by washing and slicing potatoes. His potatoes cannot be copied, he is the only one that can make them taste this way, with the perfect combo of spice, salt and pepper. They are never too greasy and never over-cooked, but always with enough brown edges. The potatoes were cut with a knife, but look as if they were done on a mandolin, they are so thin. I know he puts Tabasco in the potatoes, but there must be something more that he hasn't shared with us. He would then cook sausage or bacon, sometimes both. He cooks the meats in the same pan as the potatoes and then this flavor, too, would permeate the potatoes.

He always made fried eggs and toast. At the time in my life, I did not really mind eating a fried egg, but preferred scrambled. He knew this after awhile and he would always be sure that he scrambled a few eggs for me. Everyone had their little orders with their eggs- some wanted to dunk the yolk, some wanted the yolk broken and my father was completely in control of what was happening in the kitchen. He had each segment of the meal perfectly timed and everything arrived to the table hot.

There were rarely leftovers on Sundays, except for a few stray potatoes still sitting in the pan. They would sit there long after breakfast was over and everyone would be showering and getting ready for their day. I would sneak in and eat the remaining potatoes, cold. Then I would wash the pan out for him as if I was doing a favor. I knew that someone else was probably eyeing the potatoes and it was doing nobody a favor, but the guilt trip from eating the leftovers was somehow made up by washing the pan.

The great thing about Sundays, was not only that my Dad did the cooking for breakfast, but that we all ate together at the table. Sometimes my parents would eat together on the sofa and us kids would sit at the table to eat. We all ate at the same time, under one roof and it truly kept our family together. My parents always saw the importance of eating meals together and it is something I am very thankful for, something I will always cherish and carry on in my own life. My Dad still cooks breakfast on Sundays, I think, and even if we aren't all there, I can guarantee you, each of my siblings and their significant others can tell you that a Sunday breakfast doesn't go by without a thought of my Dad's perfect potatoes.