It is the white snow-covered cliffs that claim the first breath of dawn,
It is the strong scent of roasted coffee releasing the second breath of morn,
There are thin bands of sunlight entering in between the blinds,
There are families that gather to celebrate breakfast and the gift of time.
But my family celebrated cheese.
In the middle of a large white porcelain bowl, seven raw eggs were beaten and poured into a large frying pan; my youngest sister was heavy- handed, but her fried eggs were so fluffy with American cheese and sprinkles of cheddar cheese peeking over the top of melted butter glazing, like a sunrise.
Brother was in charge of the buttered-cheese toast, placing two large pans in the oven, standing guard to make sure they were golden; there was so much cheese melting down the sides of each piece of toast. He was the best toaster on the East Coast.
As I recall, the windows were wet with steam, the kitchen smelled of crispy fried bacon, and cheese grits. No one could make buttery cheese grits like my mother. She put cream, and butter, and lots of cheese in them, as a matter of fact, my mother’s grits were so good that my famous cousins came over for breakfast, all the time.
Oh, and my sister Rose’s quiche was the best spinach, bacon and cheese quiche I have ever tasted, but my mother’s potato, cheese and sausage casserole was the family’s favorite. Not to mention, my father’s famous fried potatoes drizzled with cheese over top, and his miniature grilled cheese sandwiches with cheddar and mozzarellas cheese, which won awards.
Those were the days of long ago that filled the room, today.
Those were the unforgettable moments we laughed and ate curds and whey,
My siblings and I still celebrate cheese each and every day.
[This is a Featured Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]