This Was Not A Feast Of The Gods Unless The Gods Were Really The Griswolds

Screen Shot 2015-11-02 at 6.58.54 AM This Sunday, I prepared a breakfast feast for my family. I planned a menu that would impress, satiate and lead to familial bonding. In fact, I knew exactly how this morning would go. I’d make sweet cream scones and serve them with Devonshire cream and a dollop of raspberry jam. I’d cook bacon and sausage, along with hash browns and my coup de gras of apple-cinnamon pancakes. This would be a feast that they would write songs about. Or at least the kids would talk about the next day.

While cooking, I’d relax and hum a little and then put the steaming platters on the table where the kids would then ooh and aah and say “Oh, thank you, mumsy!” (In my head, my darling children had British accents.) My husband would serve up a spoonful of hash browns onto his already overflowing plate and say in a deep, boomy voice: “By god, woman! I’m glad I married you!”

Then there would be birds and singing and a whole Disney production because I prepared a feast for the gods, AKA my family.

Yep. I had it all planned out.

What REALLY happened is I woke up at 3AM (time change) and then the kids woke up starving so I served them a first breakfast of leftover meatloaf and cheese puffs. Then I started the scones and realized I was out of milk, cream, and half and half so I couldn’t actually make anything.

I waited patiently (not at all) for my husband to wake up (GET OUT OF BED ALREADY!) and sent him to the store still blurry-eyed with sleep, and dressed, but not all that well.

The pancake mix didn’t have enough time to sit so there were crunchy bits in it. I promptly told everyone “Those are cinnamon chips!!” In my eagerness to season properly (Thank you, MasterChef), I added enough salt to the hash browns to ensure their preservation through the winter.

The scones were tough and the Devonshire Cream tasted like something that wanted to be butter, but just couldn’t muster up the energy. The dollop of raspberry jam looked like a glob of something bodily.

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The bacon was good, only we didn’t have enough. The sausage though. The sausage! The sausage was microwaved to perfection. (I did get some things right.)

When we sat down, my son had a meltdown because in a fit of anxiety, he couldn’t figure out how to cut the hash browns (they’d congealed) into manageable bites. My daughter tried not to cry because she just wanted to eat popcorn from her trick-or-treating the night before. My husband smiled and said it was all really good, but I could hear the crunching of his pancakes while he chewed.

We ate. Quickly. Dejectedly. As if life had somehow defeated all of us, one by one.

Then all returned to our iPads for some immediate comfort.

Sigh.

You know…at least I tried. Maybe next time though I’ll just stick to crepes. I’m really good at making crepes.