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    The Meaning of a Family Breakfast Essay

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    It’s about a quarter after 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning in October at my family home, a renovated cape cod sheltered by colored oaks in a quaint suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. Streams of sunlight peek through the brown polyester curtains into the dark room to reveal a 5 blade fan circling above overhead. Mouthwatering aromas of sweet sizzling bacon slowly dominate the room as I lie there, causing my mind to drift off into space. It has been 9 weeks since I have been home to partake in our habitual Sunday morning breakfast.

    Lunch, Dinner, and snacks are the only meals of existence for me while I’m living away at college. If I eat anything at all in the morning it’s a handful of Wheat Thins or Goldfish crackers to hold me over during my first few classes. This is mainly because the breakfast foods at the dinning hall are high on preservatives and nothing to brag about. That being said, I have missed being treated to a real and satisfying breakfast. I stop daydreaming, realizing my dream was about to come true.

    I quickly dress myself, brush my teeth, and hurry down the creaking wooden staircase tracing the savory trail. My heart began to race in coordination with the rest of my body as I got into the kitchen, where the delectable scents became stronger and stronger. My nostrils begin to perspire and my mouth moistens, envisioning sweetly tender bacon, hot cinnamon raisin French toast, and crispy seasoned potatoes that are always included in our Sunday morning breakfasts. I began to stare at the small heating oven in the center of the room, which must be the source of all the commotion.

    I was just about to open up its taunting door when my father walks into the kitchen, looking pleased with the hugest grin on his face. My dad has been awake since 6 o’clock grading algebra exams, getting the rest of his weekend work done, and preparing breakfast for us three sleeping kids. He has always found pride in making us a big breakfast to start each and every week off right, but today was even more special because my brother Tyler and I are home from college. It has been a long time since all five of us have been together for a meal, yet alone for our treasured Sunday breakfast. Good morning”, I say as I start pulling down the oven door, which shoots out a misty gust of vapors dampening my face.

    My eyes widen while my nose narrows as I take in the appealing aromas of my favorite breakfast delicacies. While taking in my version of fresh air, I feel a hand grip my shoulder from behind. “You know the drill, you gotta wait for the rest”, states my dad with a smirk on his face. I roll my eyes as he chuckles, and then run carefully through the house and back up the steps to wake my younger sister Lauren, a party-animal freshman in high school, and my night-owl older brother Tyler.

    On a typical non-school day morning, the two could sleep until 2 o’clock if you let them. However, as soon as the words potatoes and raisin French toast are heard, they spring up from their beds like little children on Christmas morning. Tyler and Lauren both tare down the steps so fast that Bodie, our black 75-pound standard poodle puppy, barks at all the uproar. In my opinion, he is just as excited for breakfast as the rest of us! The whole family, even Bodie, gathers into the kitchen eagerly waiting to add taste to the list of senses this breakfast has aroused.

    My mother looks at the three of us kids, holds up silverware, and points to the small oak table with two benches and a head chair at the far side of the kitchen against the towering front glass window. As directed to do so, Tyler, Lauren, and I set the table with glasses, plates, and silverware; and place containers of syrup, butter, ketchup, and Sunny D at the end against the window. Mom and Dad bring out large platters of crispy, seasoned, and diced red skin potatoes; crunchy, but tender hot bacon, and slices of cinnamon raisin French toast and place them all on the table.

    Once the table setup is finalized, we all take our seats around the crammed table. The table was better suited for our family during our first Sunday breakfasts years ago. Even though we all have grown, we still manage to sit side by side on the benches and enjoy the presence of one another. The layout of food has taunted everyone enough, and we begin to overly fill our plates with every item on the table, except for the potatoes. Potatoes in our family often cause arguments over proper dividing between us three addict children. No matter what type of potato, hash-brown, or French fry, my siblings and I love them all.

    My father has at least 5 different methods of cooking potatoes for Sunday breakfasts and enjoys changing it up on us. Dad decided to make what he calls “his double cooked dices” for this morning’s meal. His process involves dicing, boiling, seasoning (with rosemary, salt and pepper), and baking the potatoes in the oven until crisp. The taste of these potatoes is a phenomenon in your mouth and leaves you with wanting more. The potatoes are slowly divided between the three of us kids, while mom and dad tell us we can have their portions as well.

    Now that the food splitting is even and done with, we can start consuming the long awaited breakfast. I sat there at the table, and realized how great of a feeling it is to be home and to be sharing a meal together with my beloved family. It is just how I remember it to be, and it is as if we never were apart for 9 weeks at all. Everyone devoured their plates and is holding caring conversation with one another. We’re all open and talking about everything that has been going on in our lives, including those at home and away at school.

    Discussions of future events including birthdays, fall breaks, Cleveland Cavalier tickets, and Cedar Point’s Halloweekends are being talked about and being looked forward to. After a long dialog through and after breakfast, Tyler and I are getting ready to head back to our different universities. As I load my white 2009 Jeep Liberty with my backpack and duffle bag, I look over at Tyler as he’s bringing his bag out through the front door. He looks back at me with a closed slanted smile. I ask him, “So are you coming home next weekend, like me? ” He cheers up and gives me a big bright smile back and says, “Absolutely! ”

    This essay was written by a fellow student. You may use it as a guide or sample for writing your own paper, but remember to cite it correctly. Don’t submit it as your own as it will be considered plagiarism.

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    The Meaning of a Family Breakfast Essay. (2018, Aug 16). Retrieved from https://artscolumbia.org/the-meaning-of-a-family-breakfast-56186/

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