Wakey wakey!

Growing up, Sunday mornings almost always began with food. If it wasn't the smell of bacon on the frying pan that woke me up, it would be my dad ducking his head in my room in a voice both sweet and obnoxious shouting, "BREAKFAST, LB. LB. GET UP. BREAKFAST!" As a teenager, that was usually my cue to roll over and groan. And yet, once my olfactory senses were kickin', it wouldn't be long until I trudged into the kitchen to sit down for breakfast.

I loved that our family, without fail, would sit down for Sunday breakfast together. I loved the difficult decisions I faced at nine in the morning: english muffin, bagel, or toast? Honey, peanut butter, or plain? One egg or two? Milk, juice, or both? I wish all major decisions in life resulted in something so delicious.

I live alone, which means that sometimes there's just no point to certain things. There's no point to make multiple side dishes or dirty a plate when you could just eat straight from the pot. And there's certain meals that seem like too much work to even bother. Ever heard the Of Montreal song that begins "Pancakes for one are always depressing...?" Because it's true. Once in desparation I made pancakes for myself and ate them standing up in front of the stove as they finished. Are you picturing this? Depressing.

Once in awhile I put some effort towards my own little Sunday breakfast. As I make the eggs, I remember the comments my dad would make when he made ours - his apologies when the yolk would break, his insistence that he make one or two extra eggs in case someone wanted more.

My yolks always break. I rarely bother with breakfast meat and when I do, I convince myself that things like turkey bacon are as good as the real deal (and then I always realize that they aren't). Despite my poor man's version of Sunday Breakfast, it's still a lovely way to begin the day. It reminds me of home, it reminds me of family.

Some things are just worth the effort.