Comfort

Often my breakfast is rushed or doesn't happen at all. I'm bolting out the door to class or work, or just plain sleeping too late into the day to accurately call my first meal "breakfast". I gulp down a small mugful of grapenuts and blueberries, or grab a handful of almonds to pop in my mouth as I chop my legs like a tin soldier for maximal walking speed. This racing about causes me to appreciate slow, simple mornings like today, making me cheery and content.

There are no overhead lights on, just that which filters through an overcast sky and the kitchen windows. Dramatic commentary and cheering crowds are audible from the little TV that hides in the cupboard. Mom has her amethyst reading glasses on browsing an open newspaper, Caroline is still in her pajamas and scanning the comics, and I sit with them at the island. Dad is relaxing in a wingback chair by a window, paper propped up in front of him. He asks me if I want to take the quiz. I ask him what the topic is today, and he tells me it's science. I groan and say I'll fail it, but agree to take it anyway. Surprisingly, I know nearly all of them!

There is a basket of hot scones that lay safely nestled within cloth napkins. The coffee anxiously drips. I unwrap the basket to claim one of Dad's scones, cut open and steaming, and top it with sharp Greek yogurt (an easy fix when making Devonshire cream sounds like too much work) and ultra-sweet homemade blackberry jam. A barely perceptible grin flashes across my face in delight. I consciously choose to make it last as long as possible, savoring the different layers of flavor and texture with every bite. Ribbons of steam rise from a petite blue calico mug of black coffee with a splash of milk, resting in the top right region near my plate. I am comfortable. This is home.