Grandmother’s breakfasts were always grand.
She rose at 4 AM to make the morning meal. Flour, buttermilk, butter and love, kneaded into soft little pillows of white, ready to bake. Pork chops or chicken, battered and ready to be fried. A little bowl of fresh berries, sliced up and macerating, just for me.
Into the oven goes the biscuits, puffing up and turning golden. The bacon grease pops on the stove, frying up the meat. A little more grease goes in another pan to cook up the eggs, while another scoop into the pot to make up the white pepper gravy. The smell of fresh country cooking fills their little two-bedroom home.
Mom slices up a tomato, picked from grandmother’s garden yesterday. As everything cooks, Mom has me set the table for six. There are only five of us, but you never know when one of my uncles might swing by. Grandmother and Mom plate up all of the food and set it on the table. Mom leaves the kitchen to get Pop and Grandfather.
We all sit down for morning breakfast and enjoy the feast Grandmother made just for us. Such are the memories of childhood visiting the Appalachians.
Thank you to @Lady Jabberwocky for the prompt! https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/101036891/posts/3307270174