Of Breakfasts and my Mother

My favorite meal of the day had always been the first one. When us humans wake from the daily hours dedicated to a coma most of us resurrect ourselves with a bite to eat.

For me, that bite of resurrection is not too different from the main motivation of the biblical resurrections of love unconditional.

Every morning I wake to the clamor and pots and knives against cutting boards, then my alarm follows. I would slap it off. My nose made guesses and carried by hungry steps my eyes affirmed my guesses: homemade breads baked last night, eggs, potatoes, yams or other dances of proteins and starches and a slip of sugar if I made any pastries. A swirl of colors, a rainbow of promises, each Asian fusion my mother’s experiments with local produces.

Most of the time I carry my plate and drink upstairs to make homework or studying more palatable. But, to tell the truth, it is not the tender omelets or the often under seasoned potatoes or the hand-grounded coffees that powered me through the rest of the day, but each bite that reminded me of my mother’s care and love, so sweet, endlessly empowering.


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