My New Favorite Breakfast

In my last post, I alluded to a breakfast I recently made for myself on the morning after my aunt died.

It was a self-care breakfast. One that took time. Skill. There were layers and tastes and it’s not the kind of breakfast I would typically make just for me.

But why? Why wouldn’t I make something nice just for me?

This isn’t a recipe. It’s a journey.

I turned on my electric kettle, listening to the water inside it start to softly bubble.

From the refrigerator I pulled out a pitcher of cold-brewed coffee, a bottle of creamer, a package of bacon, and an egg.

From the blue speckled antique saucepan on my counter I grabbed an avocado. I put a slice of bread in the toaster. Placed a pan of water on the stove. I turned on the heat, and soon tiny bubbles formed on the bottom of the pan.

I poured coffee and creamer into my favorite mug and sat it on the counter by the steaming kettle. Back at the stove, I diced the bacon and put it in the cast iron skillet. The smell is immediate, delicious.

I split open the avocado, soft and green. I scoop out half and mash it with a fork then .

I crack the egg into a ramekin and walk back to the stove. I take a deep breath. This is the moment of truth. I have never poached an egg.

I swirl the simmering water with a wooden spoon. The steaming water spins, and I carefully slide the egg into the center. The water wraps the egg white around the yolk. I’m amazed that it worked! I set a timer for four minutes.

While I wait, I take a peach, soft and fragrant, from the fruit bowl. I peel it, then slice it, my fingers sticky from the juice.

Then it’s time for everything to come together.

I put the toast on a plate and heap the avocado on top, sprinkling it with salt and pepper. I slide a wooden slotted spoon into the saucepan and pull out the poached egg, sliding it on top of the toast. I top it with the crackling bacon.

I balance my plate on top of my coffee mug. Hold the bowl of peaches in the crook of my arm. Carefully place each item on the table.

And then I step back and survey it.

This was what my heart needed. I grew up in the south–a region where grief and casseroles are impossibly intertwined. Yogurt was not what I needed on this morning. Or cold cereal.

I needed warm toast. Creamy avocado. Crunchy bacon. A poached egg that oozed sunshine. A peach that tasted like summer. Coffee sipped out of a favorite mug.

I needed breakfast.


Published by Brandy

I'm a full-time writer, part-time baker, and not-enough-time runner.

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