It does a mother good to see her growing son put down a home cooked meal, in this case breakfast. It is 12:30 PM on a Sunday and the man-boy is still asleep. Tulip has been checking in for signs of stirring the past half-hour. Unable to wait any longer, she bolts to the top of stairs and bounces onto his bed. I hear her snort and roll in the covers as she tries to get in face licks. He giggles and so I turn on the oven and get ready to cook my son a hot breakfast.
I begin to cut butter into his favorite organic sage biscuit. No buttermilk for the recipe, but no worries. My favorite substitution trick of cider vinegar and half and half works just fine. Placing the ball of dough on the floured area of the countertop, I pat and fold, pat and fold, and pat and fold again before cutting four triangle scones and setting them softly on a hot stone in the oven.
Next, four slices of Canadian bacon are set to sizzle in the frying pan. When each side is golden I add a little olive oil to soak up the bacon flavor and fry two brown eggs, making sure to crack the yolks. Local organic gouda gets shredded on top of the eggs and the circles of bacon layered back on. The scones are done and I melt butter over and in the middle of the largest two.
Right on cue, the man-boy comes down the stairs.
“Honey or blueberry jam on your scones?”
“Blueberry jam sounds good.”
I spread on spoonfuls of dark purple goodness and add the scones to a warmed plated where they join the eggs and bacon. I pour milk and juice and sit next to my son at the table with scones of my own and a cup of coffee.
Taking sideway glances, I watch as the man-boy eats. I almost don’t recognize him, he has changed so. Just yesterday I was looking at pictures from years gone by. The blond toddler, making faces for the camera, laughing out loud. Gone is the chubby 10-year-old. In his place is a quiet, tall, lanky teen with angular bones, looking handsome in his Levi jeans and chin length hair.
I feel a twinge of sadness. I wish I could get more homemade meals into him. I wish I could cook for him more than just on weekends. I wish…. He downs the last of his milk and I look at his plate, satisfied to see that only crumbs remain. There. I’ve done something for him. I have filled him with a warm, hearty breakfast and right now it is all I can do. I let out a sigh, shake my head and think, “It does a mother good.”