This morning my son decided to make his own scrambled eggs for breakfast. He's been cooking for himself every once in a while lately, and I'm glad that he's willing to test his own independence about this sometimes, even though most mornings I have to coax him through every bite of his bowl of cereal.
I don't remember making my own breakfast as a child. I must have at least poured myself a bowl of cereal, or toasted my own waffles, but my mother would never have let us go make an egg over a hot stove. Breakfast in my house was a mass-production affair, with its contents determined by the day of the week. Monday was cereal. Tuesday, eggs. Wednesday, frozen waffles. Thursday, cereal again. Friday, eggs again. On Saturday we always ate pancakes. And on Sunday, we'd start the eggs cycle again, but with pastries instead of toast.
My father was the pastry-getter on Sunday mornings before breakfast. He always brought me my favorite: for a long time, it was a cheese danish (out of which I ate the cheese, leaving the pastry part behind), and then I transitioned to a raisin scone (out of which I would pick the raisins, eating them, leaving the scone part behind).
While I like giving my own kids the independence and freedom of choice about their own breakfasts (much as it tortures me some mornings to ask for the fifth time what they want to eat, like I'm a short-order cook), there's something about the structure of this, about the tradition, that's appealing.
What's for breakfast in your house?