Saturday, February 26, 2011

The Saturday Morning Breakfast Dance

One of the great things I like about Saturdays is breakfast. For six other mornings, I choke down a variety of tasteless cereal or gooey oatmeal but Saturday is the big one.  That's when the Missus goes all out with eggs, bacon, and get this...hash brown potatoes. All topped off with home made toasted bread and a steaming hot cup of black coffee. As the good ol' boys say, "It jest don' git any better than that."

However, this tasty treat does not come without a price. It all started a number of years ago, I'm not sure when (old folks have trouble remembering you know) but it was after just such a gourmet meal that I performed a little dance to show my appreciation. I did a little side-step shuffle such as the vaudeville stage performers were famous for and with elbows swinging high and side to side and with a stupid grin plastered all over my silly looking face, I made up the following song:

Oh, it's a Saturday morning breakfast,
a Saturday morning breakfast,
The greatest little breakfast in the land.

A Saturday morning breakfast,
A Saturday morning breakfast,
Cooked especially for me by Ruth Ann.

This was followed with a flourish, one foot forward, stretched toward the audience, arms wide to welcome the applause. We both a good laugh over it.

But on the following Saturday the skillet was nowhere in sight. The eggs were lying there, cold and unbroken.  One lonesome potato sat on the counter, the skin intact. My first thought was that I had once again done something to offend the Missus, failing to pet a cat perhaps. That wasn't the problem.

"Where's my Saturday Morning Breakfast Dance?"
"The Dance, like you did last week. I want to see it again.  It's my price of cooking breakfast."

The encore performance was noticeably less enthusiastic but it got the job done.  However, a pattern was firmly in place.

Somehow, Saturday mornings aren't quite what they used to be.

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