Breakfast time

This is a short personal memoir that I wrote in university for a creative writing course. It feels especially poignant to revisit this piece, as the subject of it, my beloved Grandma Susan passed away this past August. It’s an honour to share one of my most cherished memories of her with you.

I am sitting in the kitchen. It’s 8:00 am, “breakfast time” I think as I climb onto the barstool and put my knobby elbows on the counter. Every morning I make breakfast with Grandma, the only person awake in the house before me. I am five years old and it is June, or July, or maybe it’s August. It is still the most wonderful part of childhood where summer days are long and the months all melt together. Grandma reaches over the sink and cranks the window open, her elbows are knobby like mine, I think to myself. She lights up a cigarette, her first of the day, she inhales and tries to blow the smoke away from me, it slowly wafts through the air towards me and I inhale too.

We’re both wearing pink nightgowns, hers has white and yellow daisies on it, mine purple stars. They both smell distinctly of her Putters cigarettes and Downy fabric softener. Sitting on the barstool with my knees folded under me, I can look Grandma in the eye. I feel so tall, does our matching eye level make her feel short? If she does she doesn’t say so, and we begin to make breakfast— the same as every Saturday morning, oatmeal.

“It’s an instant pack, but we’ll add our own special ingredients,” she says. We go around and collect the ingredients for the oatmeal, cream (table, never half and half) and brown sugar (dark never light). Grandma pours herself a coffee in a Queen Anne teacup that she grabbed from the china cabinet in the dining room. I stare at the pink flowers painted on the porcelain, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She goes and grabs another teacup and pours it a quarter full of coffee and fills the rest up with cream.

“Here you go,” she says and slowly passes me the delicate mug. I take an unnecessary glance over my shoulder, Dad won’t be up for hours. One sip and my pupils dilate, I’ve never tasted anything like this in my life and I love it. There are worse addictions she could pass on to me. I tear open the oatmeal pack and pour it in the bowl. Grandma opens the tupperware that holds the brown sugar and takes out the terracotta weight inside.

“What’s this for?” she asks me, holding up the small reddish brown stone.
“It keeps the sugar from clumping and getting hard.” I respond.
“That’s right, you smart girl.” she smiles.

I beam with recognition. Grandma then pours some cream in a glass and hands it to me, I pour the glass in the bowl. I cannot be trusted to pour the cream myself, last time I poured the whole carton in and it had just been opened. I mix the oatmeal and carefully carry the bowl to the microwave and Grandma puts it in.

“What do you think, thirty seconds and then we take it out and stir?” she asks.
“That should be good,” I reply, half listening. My eyes drift over to the window overlooking the backyard. Grandma already has a set of sheets out to dry; they are white and slowly sway in the heavy morning air. They stand out in contrast to the wall of green grass and garden that they hang above. I decide that later I will take out some dolls and books and make a fort between the sheets. I have no brothers or sisters, so I will be the queen of my own clothesline castle, which is just how I like it.

The microwave beeps, piercing the pleasant silence. Grandma and I both jump, lost in our own thoughts. She takes out the bowl and sets it on the counter. I stir the oatmeal inside, and she puts it back in the microwave for another thirty seconds.

“Your coffee is getting cold,” Grandma says to me as she turns on the radio and passes me my teacup. I take a sip and feel older than I have in my entire life. We stand there, both in our pink nightgowns, holding our pink and porcelain teacups. The only two awake in the house, a day full of possibilities ahead.

The microwave beeps again, and we both jump.