Tue, 16 Jun 1998 07:22:16 CDT
In the llovisna (mists) of the past, smells penetrate. And sounds.
Tastes, even. Breakfast was a sensual time on those special
weekends. Nothing like that smell of bacon. It penetrated
upstairs, drew you down. Tickled the nostrils. Insinuated
itself directly into the pleasure center. Surrounded your
mind. Better than eating it, even, maybe, but you HAD to eat
it once you had smelled it. My Dad took a great pleasure in
cooking up breakfast with lots of good stuff. He made a big
deal about it, like it proved he knew how to cook. Ha ha!
Just like *I* know how..
You needed a couple of glasses of OJ to wash all that salty stuff
down- and the eggs, salty or not- the yolk needs
washing down. Feels so good on the throat. The crusty brown
stuff around the white edges, the gooey yolk (over easy,
please!) There's the art of it- firm white, runny yolk- to
allow soaking up with that toast- that's the BEST part.
It really did start my morning off right. Maybe that had to do
with the kind of mornings where he would take the time
for it, but it seemed to have a great impact on how I felt.
The bright sunny Saturday full of promise.
Embrace
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