Breakfasts

Sunday evening we went to a family history fireside. The senior missionary couple doing the fireside talked a little about family history research, but most of the time was spent on personal histories and sharing your stories and the stories of your ancestors. I was inspired to start writing a few things from my childhood. The missionary couple suggested starting with your earliest memory, then they gave some other examples of things they had shared with their grandchildren. One of their stories made me think of a favorite memory, which I thought I would share.

Until I was probably in middle school, I remember Dad cooking breakfast most days while Mom was at Seminary.  When Mom and whatever kids were in Seminary got back, it was time to wake up and eat breakfast. Back then, our scripture reading was done before breakfast. We would all sit around the table with our scriptures and read the chapter, and then breakfast was served. Many breakfasts were hot cereal. I think Dad made it a point to make hot cereal two or three times a week, but to me it seemed like it was every day. The cereals ranged from oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, and rice, to things I considered disgusting like bear mush, 7 grain, and cracked wheat. Even today I don’t know what bear mush really is, but it came from the Amish store like the other grosser cereals.  The oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, and rice were usually made bearable by adding butter, sugar, cinnamon and milk, but there was no way to redeem the others. I had to eat whatever was served because I remembered the consequences of not eating. Once after breakfast Dad pulled out a stash of candy bars, and if you had eaten all your cereal, you got one. If you hadn’t eaten it, there was no chance to go back and finish. I was in misery because I did not eat my breakfast and could not have a candy bar. Any whining or crying was met with an unfeeling response to eat all my breakfast next time.  Another time Dad made a note of who had eaten breakfast, and in the evening, only those people got ice cream. The injustice! How was I supposed to know when it was safe to push away the gross food and when it had to be endured to get the sweet reward? I learned to eat whatever it was, just in case. Breakfasts on other days were usually very good. We had things like pancakes, German pancakes, French toast, eggs made in every way—foods that would probably be considered by others to be elaborate breakfasts for a weekday, but to me, it was just a breakfast that wasn't oatmeal. Sometimes holidays were celebrated with special breakfasts, like green pancakes for St. Patrick’s Day and huevos rancheros for Cinco de Mayo. Sundays were special because we got to have cold cereal, a special treat at our house. Now, I have cold cereal almost every day for breakfast. And sometimes I want to eat oatmeal or Cream of Wheat. What would Dad think if he knew?