The Ghost of Breakfasts Past

My family never turned down a meal invite to my Aunt Priscilla’s house, especially not breakfasts.

These were our rich relatives (my uncle was a printing magnate in DC) and they presided over multiple houses— a low-slung ranch in a woodsy part of Maryland, a Chesapeake Bay cottage, and a contemporary split-level within walking distance of our avocado green Cape Cod. Our house was decorated mostly by Sears. Their house abounded in jet set souvenirs, my favorite being an Indian hand-carved teak trunk whose exotic, many-armed denizens seemed to undulate when the light hit them just so.

This alluring cosmopolitan lifestyle carried over into my aunt’s gourmet kitchen. Her cooking dazzled me. Mostly because my mom was strictly a meatloaf and spaghetti gal, constantly stymied in attempted culinary flights of fancy by my meat-and-potatoes dad. We demanded (and got) Kellogg’s variety pack every morning. The first course on my aunt’s breakfast menu was often little melon balls on a bed of crushed ice, the fruit so ripe it melted on your tongue. Grapefruit, another morning appetizer, got the crushed ice treatment, too. It was presented, not with grapefruit spoons (how gauche!), but each half painstakingly segmented and punctuated with a giddy maraschino cherry. Such class!

These tempting morsels were only the on-ramp. Some piercingly chic form of egg followed, possibly Benedict or moist, fluffy scrambled eggs with sides of succulent bacon or savory sausage links. English muffin slathered with butter and strawberry preserves? Don’t mind if I do.

Holiday feasts, backyard cookouts or weekend pre-Canasta suppers, on elegant bone china or artsy Franciscan stoneware—all Aunt Priscilla’s meals came on color-coordinated and occasion-appropriate placemats and accompanied by pretty matching napkins. The sunporch table, possibly the world’s most refined “children’s table,” was a wrought iron affair with a hammered glass top—to my young eyes, the height of luxury.

Honestly, I can’t recall ever eating a plain ol’ meal there and can’t even picture my aunt without a miraculously clean apron tied around her ample waist. (Hey, I’ll bet she changed it after she cooked–pro tip!)

Why am I telling you all this? Well, living alone as I do, it’s tempting to relegate her domestic wizardry to bygone cultural norms as I serve myself a PB&J sammie on a paper plate. That’s when, like Marley’s ghost, my aunt looms up in her apron and neatly pressed day dress and frowns at my bare table. Suddenly, said table clearly needs a centerpiece, tablecloth, and carefully coordinated place setting. She waggles a spectral finger until I fetch out Mom’s silver and a nice crystal tumbler for some ice water.

When I finally sit down to my decent meal with all the accoutrements, I understand why she bothered. It’s not just about epic hospitality, it’s about self-respect, whether you’re pampering guests or dining solo.

And isn’t that the kind of woman I want to be?

A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed. Proverbs 11:25

(For more meal-making tips, check out my deadline diet post here.)