Breakfast is my favourite meal of the day, perhaps because it is associated with fond memories of my maternal grandmother. All the grandkids called her Mama. I’m not sure how that came about, but it’s what we called her. Anyway, I’m feeling nostalgia and decided to write a short post.
Mama made the most delicious breakfast that, to this date, has never been surpassed. It was a simple breakfast of fresh-baked bread, sliced thick and slathered with salted yellow butter, fried jackfish, fried ham, which is almost like a form of Canadian bacon. The smell of the ham cooking was sort of a hint that breakfast was almost ready. Fresh eggs from the chicken coop and sometimes, if I was lucky, Mama fried up thick slices of cou-cou or bakes.
The breakfast I eat now is far removed from the love that Mama cooked up in her charcoal-fired stove and oven in her outdoor kitchen. Turkey bacon and English muffins and grits are a poor substitute. It was while making this morning’s breakfast that memories of my grandmother came flooding in. I miss her.