Growing up, Sunday morning breakfast was a very big occasion in our house, my father being the main chef. There were “Barney pancakes” when we were little: my father would whisk red and blue food coloring together and then add it in a pancake mix, resulting in fluffy, purple little circles drowning in lots of maple syrup that tickled me and my sister to death. As we grew older, we went through a huge french toast stage, and as we got ready for church, you would find my father in the kithen cutting up pieces of bread, dipping them in egg, and then throwing them on the skillet, which were then also drowned in lots of maple syrup. And then at some point, those breakfasts’ stopped, and since being away at college, I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually sat down to eat in the morning.
But this morning as I made my way to the kitchen, I found my father making eggs, toast, and peeling clementines. When he asked if I wanted to join, I simply couldn’t refuse, and we spent the next half hour eating and catching up. I couldn’t think of a more perfect Sunday morning. The Christmas paper plates and dining room decorations only added to my happiness.♥