A Tale of Two Mother’s Day Breakfasts

As anyone who knows me knows (is it you, dear reader?) I am nothing if not perfectly accurate in my recollection and honest to a fault. Knowing, in my mind, this truth, I’ve set forth the following account of a particular Mother’s Day in 1954 where, wishing to make it a truly special day, I fixed breakfast for my parents.

I was 3.

While most, if not all, children at that age lack the knowledge and dexterity to handle such a chore, I moved around the kitchen with the grace of Fred Astaire and before long had settled upon a classic menu: eggs, toast and coffee. It was, of course, the fabulous ’50’s and there was no reason to go beyond the basics; just make a good, solid American meal.

I began my project at 5:30am Sunday morning and, having little concept of time, planned on a meal time of 6:30. Also, wishing to make this a semi-formal affair and remembering the old phrase ‘fancy pants’, I went the extra mile and actually put some pants on. Then I went about assembling the necessary food items from the fridge, selecting the proper fry pan, utensils and prepping the toaster.

Finally, I located the can of Maxwell House coffee and tried to deduce how an adult might make a pot of coffee. Pot, check. Coffee, check. Stove, check. Water? I was not sure about the proportion of water to coffee. In fact, I wasn’t sure about the proportion of coffee, period, but went about tossing in an approximate amount along with an approximate measure of water and cranked up the burner to an approximate temperature for an approximate time.

Since the toast was going to be the easiest task (because what 3 year old can’t make toast?) I concentrated on the intricacies of frying eggs in a pan. I’d never had the occasion to do that before but assumed, through my superior intellect, that one had to extract the egg from the shell and then toss it in the pan. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it done on TV, watched others perform the task, or read a detailed essay in the Ladies’ Home Journal. I didn’t know how hungry everyone would be so I splurged (hell, it’s Mother’s Day!) and cracked open nearly all the eggs in the carton.

When everything was complete to the best of my knowledge, I went to gather my parents, still asleep from their late night adult lives, and while my father appeared a bit resistant at first, I explained my efforts and called upon their celebratory selves to join me in a festive breakfast created as an homage to my mother on Mother’s Day. Slowly, they gathered themselves together to see the good deed I had done.

“Happy Mother’s Day!”, I exclaimed, waiting for the plaudits I knew were to come. My mother replied, “Oh my!”, with almost delirious surprise, but my father only stared at the kitchen with what can safely be termed ‘awe’, which I interpreted as reverently impressed beyond speech.

Sounds good, right?

Now, at this point the story tends to differ between my mother’s recollection and mine but I believe, due to my mother’s advanced age, my account is likely more accurate so here it goes:

Then we all sat down at the table I had properly set between food preparation. I poured their coffee, politely offered fresh squeezed orange juice to any who wished it and served our entrée. I recall them being a bit too voracious to speak through the consumption of such delicious fare but some of the comments went like the following.

Mother: “Son, I am deeply touched by your wonderful gift and amazed at your remarkable skills in the kitchen. You are surely the most talented 3 year old in the world!

Father: “Yes, son, I was always a big fan of yours but this food is almost better than your mother’s…ha,ha! From now on, whenever you want to toss the ball around or spend some quality time, just ask and I’ll be there. Thank you for being you.”

My mother went out to tend to her garden. My father went to work on his stamp collection and I cleaned up the kitchen until it sparkled. What a wonderful start to a great day.

My mother’s version mentioned coffee grounds everywhere on the floor mixed with broken eggs, a hearty pat on my backside for a nice try and my father grumbling something all the way back to bed to sleep off the prior evening’s indulgence, but I don’t think that’s right. I should know, I was there.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom…and, once again, you’re welcome.