Waking up is hard to do but having a big breakfast can help me wipe away the sandman’s gunk he left at the corners of my eyeballs. The breakfast that I could eat every morning and never get tried is that of my grandmother’s. She keeps her meal simple and true to the heart of dixie cooks everywhere. Grits, eggs, and toast is what she has cooked for years and years of which I have no idea of the length or amount to which she has cooked.
The grits looked as though clouds could be put into tiny nuggets and slapped on a plate for me to inhale in my mouth. A molar floats along the edge of the clouds drifting with no care. The tongue slips through the cloud to capture a few drops of butter that run through the inside of the cloud. My lips hold back the massive amount that is passing by the teeth and tongue to venture down my esophagus. With every bite more and more of those clouds disappear from my plate. Once I finish the clouds I then begin to take a bite out of the sun.
The eggs have a low glow to their appearance that can best be described as a sun setting at the horizon. With only a two scrambled eggs on my plate the sunset isn’t a sunset but rather a sunsecond. With no time to spare the eggs are gone and more of my plate is becoming clearer to my waking mind. Once the sun has traveled to my stomach to warm up its squishy walls I begin to eat my toast.
Toast is served with a buddy; the two have played with each other since the both of them have been around. The jelly skips across the toast with one glide from of a knife. The jelly lies on his back looking at my face that has finally broken free of the grip the sandman once had. Once in my stomach the two look at the sun behind the lazy clouds that have been waiting for them. The plate has now been striped of any credible amount of food.
These three fixings are simple and I have always enjoyed eating them since I remember. Each one of them are sort lived on my plate since I eat them with such a high speed. My eggs and grits are always the first two to go with toast coming right after them. Never do I eat all three in any other order since I stick to some habits with a passion. The routine has differed from time to time but I stick to the basic plan of attack.
I have a lot of beliefs to which I live by. One such belief is that you can be settled and with a stir from a fork all the grits and eggs have been swirled into living with each other since separating would be pointless. Just as steady as the sun setting people mixed together and some have gone together like the colonist banding together to fight for there freedom. While other people mixed like toast thrown at the grits. A loud thump sounds then tiny projectiles splat on your shirt. That kind of relationship is like the number of countless wars that have been waged. Since the cook of this most important meal of the day is a delicate lady I won’t go into great length of the tyranny of war, but all wars have never created peace but caused chaos.
This breakfast all comes from a lady who stands no taller than my shoulders. What an impact it has on me to get up from the comforts of sleep. Her size is small but the flavor and amount to which she cooks is immense. Much of what I know about my grandmother makes me have the utmost respect for her. To me having someone respect you means they care about enough to never see you in pain.
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