Waking up to the sound of distinct chatter, I opened my eyes to the harsh light peeking through the window shades, knowing I had stretched out my time to sleep in long enough. I made a small flinch, and our black pug jerked off my foot to slink away to another corner of my bed. The two of us groggily made our way to the living room. Per usual, Tank and I were the remaining ones to wake up, as the rest of my family was seemingly awake for a few hours.
After a few minutes, my dad carefully placed down the Dedham Times and his black tea atop the ottoman. He peered over to my direction, signaling to me that it was time. I happily joined him into the kitchen, hearing the pitter patter of my dog’s nails scurrying to catch up with us. Slipping my stained apron over my pajamas, it was time to make the weekly Sunday breakfast.
I grabbed the butter, eggs and bacon from the refrigerator, making sure not to drop anything since my dog was right behind me, ready to sweep up any crumbs. Never losing hope that someday one piece of bacon will fall onto the tiled floor, Tank persistently stares up at me. My dad and I joke that we have a vacuum cleaner to mop up the occasional scraps we drop on the floor.
As I make my way over to the stovetop, my dad is vigorously shaking the pan, making the home fries fly out and back - acting like the short order cook he always wanted to be. Frying the bacon on the burner near him, I stay vigilant to mentally note any interesting tips I can store for the future.
After fifteen minutes of whisking, crisping, and toasting, we have completed cooking the meal. The smell is intoxicating and beckons my sister and mother to the breakfast bar. Following my dad, I grasp two plates covered with fluffy yellow eggs, perfect slices of bacon, and our famous home fries dusted with smoked paprika. Once I turned around from the stove, my foot jabs into what I thought was a shadow, launching the two plates out of my hands. I looked down to see a vast mess jumbled on the floor, but suddenly to my surprise, I spotted Tank! His pudgy nose smearing the breakfast all over his face, acting as if I was serving this food to him all along.
I look down at the mess in disappointment. “What a waste!” I exclaimed. As I slowly lifted my head up in shame to catch my family’s gaze, I hoped their expressions did not match mine. But from the giant smiles illustrated on their faces, I exhaled gratefully. The room quickly filled with chuckles, along with the smell of the remaining plates of bacon and eggs getting cold.
As the times continue, my dad and I, as his sous chef, will make more mistakes, but even stronger memories. I always look forward to Sunday mornings, because unlike Tank waiting for food to drop, I can consistently count on cooking breakfast with my dad.