I am in the dark.
The dream I just had gave me the feeling of comfort, warmth, and reassurance. However, I could not remember what within the dream was giving me that feeling.
Tucked under a blanket on the couch, watching a movie you have seen a thousand times before. Receiving a message out of the blue, reminding you of your past minor triumphs. The satisfaction in newly vacuuming a carpet.
Or
Putting a piece of candy in your mouth and having that taste trigger memories of childhood: The ice cream truck; suburban afternoons running around barefoot; playing games on green grass front yards with your friends, sometimes until dusk or when your Mom called you in for dinner.
It was none of those things, in my dream. Giving up, I decided to start my day.
~~~
The out-of-town family guests, and everyone else, are still asleep. Downstairs, I feed the cats, turn off the porchlight, and put on a pot of coffee. I turn on the oven.
The bacon comes out of the refrigerator along with eggs, blueberries, heavy cream and butter. I place the blueberries in a colander and rinse them under cold water. Shaking off the excess water, I let them sit in the drying side of the two-compartment sink. Two cookie sheets are wrapped in aluminum foil and the bacon is lined up on each.
I bring a pineapple to the cutting board and set out removing its crown, skin, and roots. Then I cut the meat away from the core, and cube it to a size that will not require you to open your mouth wider than naturally meant.
By this time, the oven has announced it is ready to receive the bacon. I comply.
I find a shallow pie dish. Into it goes six cracked eggs, heavy cream, freshly grated nutmeg, vanilla extract, and some brown sugar. Whisked, I set it aside for now.
The cubed pineapple goes into one serving bowl. The blueberries go into one too. Both are taken to the dining room table. With dishes, utensils, napkins and glasses. A fish-shaped pitcher of water that gurgles when poured. Orange juice and mango juice.
It smells like the bacon is ready. That aroma most assuredly had floated its way up the stairs to every bed in the house. The scent of coffee was its appetizer. The bacon goes onto a plate with paper towels to absorb the excess fat. It is salty and crispy. The taste, a tax taken for its preparation.
The bacon is moved to the dining room table and the oven is set to a low temperature.
I pull out slices of bread and give the pie dish a final whisk. Into a large, heated skillet goes a generous amount of butter that will be replenished as needed. A slice of bread goes into the egg mixture. First on one side and then the other. It is drained of excess and placed into the skillet. Three more slices of bread and the skillet is full. When the slices are ready, I flip. I will repeat this process until I run out of egg mixture.
Slowly, the inhabitants upstairs come down. Wandering in and out of the kitchen for coffee or tea or morning greetings.
I forgot the maple syrup and powdered sugar. The mistake is corrected.
The french toast is cooked in batches of four. Once done, they go onto another cookie sheet and are kept warm in the oven. When completed, I place the plateful of french toast in the center of the table. Some people are already seated around the table and have started nibbling, and I announce to the rest that breakfast is served.
Finishing up in the kitchen, I refill my coffee mug and find a seat at the table.
