The Ritual of Country Breakfast

There is nothing quite like the ritual of a country breakfast. It is orchestral and steeped in American tradition the way the Mass is for the Church. It has order and familiarity which always leaves you satisfied. As a child, I remember my grandmother making big breakfasts on the weekends. She would turn on some Christian talk radio (I think) and begin the litany of sounds and smells that would produce our familial communion. As she worked, the back door would open and someone would walk in that was just "stopping by". It might be Ruby the neighbor, Brucker who was Ruby's neighbor, cousins, aunts, children...you name it. They all stayed for breakfast. Mama (that's what I call my grandmother...don't laugh) would hand me a juice glass and direct me to cut out the biscuits she had just rolled out. She taught me to rub the edge of the glass in flour first so the biscuits would drop out better.

The cast iron skillets on the stove would quietly sizzle with bacon and sausage -- never one or the other but both.  I remember watching her pour out some of the grease into a small crock on the stove. She would use this later for green beans, cornbread, or a host of other dishes. What was left in the pan would be used to make milk gravy. To me, this was the star of the show and one of my favorite biscuit condiments. After spooning some flour over the hot grease, she would slowly stir and cook the roux (she never called it that) until it had a golden sheen and a nutty smell. Then she would take it off the burner to cool a bit. All the while, the dinning room is filling up and she takes a break to offer coffee to the congregants. On most mornings, the leaf would be added to the table and our sanctuary became a cluster of mismatched chairs, stools, and highchairs.

Back at the stove, Mama would return to her gravy while she heated the other skillet that would host the eggs. A spoon of nearly solidified bacon grease would be tossed in and the oven light would be turned on to check the biscuits. They are just beginning to rise...still plenty of time. As Mama started to add the milk to the cooled roux, I would begin to dig out the plethora of honey (always with the comb), sorghum molasses, home canned jellies and jams. It was always a challenge to fit everything on the table and sometimes thing would be relegated to the side hutch. From the kitchen Mama would ask how we wanted our eggs done. She would fry some and scramble some so that everyone would be happy. This was my clue to start searching for a place to sit. Chairs were filling fast and I would most likely sit on the tall stool. I liked that seat best anyway because it put me at the same level as the adults.

Finally, after an hour of cutting, stirring, frying, and baking, we have recited the prayers and are ready for the great sacrifice. At Mass, this is a hushed time, but at our table the sounds are elevated. This clinking of china and fork, laughing, and the occasional "oh my Lord" from Mama fill the room and fill my memories.

Mama is still at it though she presides over her morning kitchen less than she used to. Family has spread out, neighbors and friends have moved or passed away and the table rarely needs the leaf. In my family we are trying to carry on the ritual of a country breakfast. We don't do it often but when we do, I am transported back to that hot kitchen and to my faith in the importance of tradition, family, and slow mornings.