The Breakfast Club

On Sundays, I wake up to the melodious chirping of the birds, the only day my wretched alarm clock doesn’t disrupt my sleep by its jarring sound. Throughout the week, I eagerly look forward to Sundays, for reasons you probably cannot fathom. For only on Sundays do I get to partake in an age-old family tradition of mine, ’The Breakfast Club’.

This particular Sunday, after quickly freshening up, my wife and I rushed downstairs to our airy, high-ceilinged kitchen. Sunlight streaked in through the lofty glass windows, bathing the whole room in a soft glow, almost as if it were enveloping us in a warm hug.

Armed with a few fresh eggs, I headed straight for the stove to cook some exquisite scrambled eggs, a great example of my newly acquired culinary skills. The pleasant sound of the butter sizzling in the pan was complemented by the light baritone of Frank Sinatra serenading us. Ah, chef’s kiss (pun intended).

My wife was baking waffles and prepping pancakes, while lightly grooving to Frank Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to The Moon’ that was playing on our vintage vinyl record player. She carelessly tucked a lock of her dark hair behind her ear, blissfully unaware that her cheeks were faintly speckled by flour. Then, she looked up and smiled at me alluringly. I recalled what Suzanne Collins had once written and fervently wished it were true. ‘I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now and live in it forever.’

Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the heavenly smell that had pervaded the air. Entranced, I was immediately transported to a quaint bakery that I would often visit in my childhood. My mother would take me there on the weekends and the scent of the freshly baked goods would be enough to make me salivate profusely.

I was snapped out of my nostalgic reverie by the sound of the toaster. I deftly completed my cooking and then plated the crisp toast and the eggs. We then gracefully arranged the dishes on our Mahogany table.

There, lying on our wooden table, was a sumptuous spread of breakfast, the same as every Sunday, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Two soft, scrambled eggs generously dotted with cheddar cheese adorned our porcelain dishes. A stack of fluffy pancakes, encrusted with chocolate chips and berries, sat between the scrambled eggs and a few Belgian waffles that had been drizzled with maple syrup and great dollops of whipped cream.

“Look at what I just whipped up”, my wife grinned, brandishing the whipped cream bottle. Groaning loudly at her silly dad joke, I took out a bottle of freshly-squeezed orange juice and poured its contents into two glasses. Meanwhile, she spread avocado over some toast and sprinkled tomato on top. There was a certain warmth that radiated from her face, evident from her subtle smile and soft gaze, that seemed to light up the whole room.

The lavish feast looked utterly surreal, as if it were a scene from a 1980’s John Hughes’ film (subtle reference to the eponymous title). The appetising aroma of the food wafted about enticingly, as if beckoning us to dig in.

My wife gave me a peck on the cheek and sat beside me. In front of us lay our impressive breakfast, the breakfast that had become a part of the rhythm of our lives together.

It remains by far my favourite breakfast, yet it has nothing at all to do with the food. I loved it because she was there that day, because she would take part in this routine every Sunday. I loved it because I loved her, quite deeply.

As if on cue, Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ started playing in the background.

We dug in.