Cody Howrigon

Memoir

Breakfast for Dinner

    I did my best not to get too close, but something about the sight and smell of bacon simmering in a hot pan had a very powerful effect on a young me.

   “Can I have a bite of one to see if it's ready yet, grandpa?” I asked, gazing dreamily into the pan.

   “No, you'll just have to wait patiently like your sisters,” my grandpa replied as he gave me a gentle nudge with his leg.

   I backed up only a few feet, and continued to look on in amazement as I watched what I truly believed to be a genius at work. It mesmerized me really. How could a single person cook a full-fledged breakfast, set the table, do the dishes, watch the game, and feed the dog, all while singing a favorite Sinatra tune in the most nonchalant manner possible? Answer: I'm not really sure, but I've been trying to figure it out ever since.

   “Cody, come sit down at the table with your sisters and I. You'll get your bacon when it's ready,” my grandma said in an impatient tone.

   “Yeah Cody, just because you're the youngest doesn't mean you get to go first all the time. Why do you always have to be such as baby?” said my loving older sister, Grace.

   This accusation would normally send me into a sudden fit of rage and chaotic yelling, but due to the complete sensory overload taking place, it didn't really register. So I slowly dragged myself away from the beautiful mosaic of breakfast food, and reluctantly moseyed over to my usual spot at the dinner table. After what seemed to be an eternity of sitting and waiting patiently, my grandpa finally said the magic words, “Time to eat!”

   I quickly filled my plate with an assortment of eggs (both scrambled and sunny-side up), two slices of Texas Toast, a mountain of bacon, an slew of sausage, and a second plate full of hash-browns covered in ketchup.

   “That's too much, Cody. Put some back. I don't want you to waste any,” my grandma reasoned, doubting me.

   “He's a growing boy! Leave him be. He needs to get big and strong for football this fall anyway,” my grandpa said, defending me.

   With that, I dug in. It was a transformational experience, as it always is. I began with an empty stomach and a heart filled with ambition; I finished with child heartburn and a higher BMI.

   Since I had finished much sooner than the rest of the table, I was afforded the time to really sit back, relax, and take in a level of pleasure that would make any true hedonist proud. My eldest sister    Courtney, was the last to finish, and both of my grandparents were already clearing the table to start cleaning dishes. Courtney looked at my other sister and I discreetly with eyebrows raised, signaling that it was time for the obligatory post-meal thank you. Grace and I both nodded that we understood and all three of us yelled out together.

   “Thank you grandpa!”

   “This was even better than last time,” Courtney added.

    My grandpa received our thanks in his usual stoic demeanor, then left the room with beer in hand to go watch football. This usually meant that it was time for our favorite part of the night – dessert.

   “Is it time for ice cream yet grandma?” Grace questioned eagerly.

   “As long as you make your beds and get your pajamas on fir--.”

    My sisters and leaped from our chairs and bolted to the living room to “make” our beds (which consisted of simply choosing a blanket and pillow from a nearby closet and setting it on the couch). Once I had my blanket and pillow in place, I quickly threw off my shirt and shorts and was down to my Tommy Hilfiger boxers (something I was still young enough to consider pajamas).

   “I'm done, grandma! My bed's made and my pajamas are on!”

   She smiled, and handed me a bowl of vanilla ice cream that was nearly as big as my head.

   “Jeez Cody! Save some for us,” Grace whined as she was being handed her equally enormous sized bowl. “You forgot your chocolate too, dummy!”

    This is where my family's ice cream eating habits differ from most. First, we add an ungodly amount of Hershey's chocolate sauce to our vanilla ice cream, just as I'm sure many other people do. Then, after we drizzle that oh too good chocolatey liquid into the bowl, we hold our spoons with a Friday the 13th-style grip, and we very slowly, very methodically, churn the ice cream in a wide, circular motion, round n' round until our arm muscles fail from overexertion. When this occurs, we promptly switch arms (wasting no time, as that was the secret), making the same churning motion as before. This cycle continues for exactly three minutes (as if there were some holy doctrine somewhere stating to do so). The result, is a thick, viscous consistency – one that is so thick in fact, that it can't quite be called ice cream anymore at all. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's solid brown color resembles something I don't think I need to spell out for you, and thus, isn't the most appealing thing to look at. However, with the lights turned down low, our favorite cartoons on VHS, and a nice, cozy spot on the couch, one can really appreciate the explosion of cavity causing sugar setting off every taste receptor in your mouth.