One of my favorite memories from childhood is coming downstairs early in the morning to find my grandfather, his comfortably faded flannel bathrobe knotted over his blue pajamas, his feet cozy in fleece-lined slippers, stirring a pot of something on the stove. What the something was would vary – sometimes rolled oats (never “oatmeal”), sometimes farina (cream of wheat). In the warmer months he might be poaching eggs or soft boiling them for presentation in adorable ceramic egg cups. But the point, other than that he often expressed his love for us by cooking, was that he knew what we so often forget: breakfast is important.
Spring brings such happiness to my heart. As I look outside, after all the unusual rain, I see the roses flourishing from the extra water and the pruning I did in late fall. The freesia bulbs I had forgotten about are popping with purple color and the new bare root rose I thought wasn’t going to make it is pushing foliage out like a surprise package.