My cookbook is broken into sections like “Breakfast,” “Football Food,” etc., and initially I had an intro for each section. I decided to omit those writeups and keep it simple. This is what I was going to include in the breakfast section:
Breakfast extracts mostly warm memories and many of the recipes in this book are made on Sunday mornings, days when we can take our time and even sit at the table together. The scent of strong black coffee and hints of real maple dance around the room while the Sunday newspaper rests in layers on the dining room table.
Breakfast is for pulpy orange juice and pancakes bursting with purple blueberries. It’s the time for hot home fries cooked to a crisp in the cast iron pan. It’s the moment for family.
We don’t do homestead tasks on Sunday. It’s a tradition that finds its origin back to the 1990’s when we had a young family in Jacksonville, NC. We do not run the lawnmower on Sundays, nor do we do extensive housework or yardwork. It’s a day to just chill, to catch up with each other, to watch football, and spend time with our animals, which includes our chickens.
We are grateful for our feathered friends and their contribution of fresh eggs* to our family. Eggs from our chickens have become a tiny piece of our culture. We used some as currency during the pandemic to trade for toilet paper when it was scarce. We have given them away and fed them to our pups. What better way to make their coats shine? We’ve also seen one erupt rather gently and we were introduced to a fuzzy chick, Mr. Jarndyce. She has since given us her own eggs, and they’re blue.
Make breakfast! May your Sunday mornings with the ones you love pass slowly. Here are a few of our favorite breakfast foods. Enjoy!
*Fresh eggs are best, but they are not always accessible. If you are so lucky to obtain some, and they are unwashed, keep them on the counter. They will keep well because of their bloom: a clear coating on the outside of the shell that preserves the egg. The US is one of the few areas in the world that refrigerates eggs, and it’s quite silly.
Teresa Forester Adams 