Sunday Mornings

The Sunday mornings of my childhood were filled with breakfast smells and hugs and laughter. There’s nothing quite like bacon, eggs and loads of hugs.

Even after my parents divorced, Sunday mornings were full of love and good food – we just had a choice of two homes to feel the love and munch the grub in.

In 1987 my dad died, but Sunday mornings never changed – mom made sure that hearty breakfasts and plenty of hugs were dished out. And then she died, in 2006, and Sunday mornings changed forever.

I hated Sunday mornings.

I tried to have nothing to do with them.

Until I learned I could recapture some of those beautiful, warm and fuzzy memories by making gorgeous breakfasts.

Acres of crisp bacon. Reams of fried eggs. Whole loaves of fresh, toasted bread with sweet jams and sheets of cheddar cheese. Stacks of crumpets. Pots of cream. Bite by drooling bite, I slowly resurrected the joy of Sunday mornings. And grew larger as I did. I was an A1 emotional eater.

Still am.

Only now, there’s a little more moderation (God, did I actually just use that word???) served with Sunday breakfasts – but only when it comes to food. There’s no limit to the fond memories and love for my folks. In fact, on Sunday mornings, it’s like they’re still alive – sitting quietly in another room, reading the Sunday papers.

Just like they used to.

© Dave Luis 2014. All Rights Reserved.


    1. Right? After they died, I didn’t want to remember, it hurt too much. But now i can bring them back to life even just for a short while. These are good memories.

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