I'm one of those rare people who eat breakfast, sorta. Within an hour or two of my first cup of coffee, I'll fix eggs and toast or maybe a cup of oatmeal.
As a farm kid, I developed the breakfast habit early in life. Mom started cooking the moment she woke up, even before the coffee finished brewing. Breakfast consisted of biscuits and gravy, eggs and bacon or sausage almost every day. On Saturdays, the bacon was switched out for pork chops and grease (red-eye gravy, for those not in the know). Sundays was cinnamon rolls, eggs and bacon.
She doesn't cook like that anymore, but I realized today that my parents still eat on a farm schedule. They are visiting this weekend, and while I stumbled groggily from kitchen to desk with my oversized coffee cup, Mom and Pop stood by the stove, looking expectant.
"Cups are there," I mumbled pointing to the cupboard behind them.
"Eggs?" Pop asked.
"Bacon?" Mom added.
"Biscuits?" they said in unison, stomach rumbling.
I realized that's not quite 7 a.m. and long past time for breakfast, as far as they are concerned. "Yogurt?" I offered. "Toast? Apple?"
Yeah...no. So I gulped my first cup of coffee, grabbed the fry pan and discovered that the only thing harder than eating at daybreak is cooking then.