Sunday Brunch

Our name echoed over the public address drowning out the noise of clanging plates, trays and water glasses shuffled by hungry patrons and busy busboys. I led our party toward the hostess and as we settled around the table, I noticed a distinctive floor arrangement centered in the dining room. At first I didn’t recognize it, I had to do a double take, but there it sat, tastefully decorated with tropical plants. Someone had even stuffed it full with walking canes. I hadn’t seen a butter-churn since I was a kid and as I stared at it, memories of another brunch sprang to life.
Every Sunday we’d set out for the barn to milk the cows, Grandpa leading the way in his familiar bib overalls and T-shirt*a half gnawed cigar clamped between his teeth, and me trailing behind with the tins like an obedient little puppy. I wasn’t very big and at five, I had to skip and hop to keep up as we trudged along the sand path, past moss-laden trees and Grandma’s sweet smelling gardenias.
The gate for his corral hung cocked-eyed from the side of the garage and on the other side, Bertha, Meadow and Blossom expectantly bellowed. Grandpa would slip the wire loop, push them back, and then refasten it over the post after he entered. I wasn’t allowed in. He always worried one of them might step on me.
But halfway through the milking he’d hustle me off to the chicken coop to gather the eggs. Now being barefoot required a degree of attentiveness, but in the dim light of the chicken coop, I found the right spot to step impossible and invariably missed. Yet it never deterred me. Through meshes, mashes and ghastly thoughts of what oozed between my toes, I managed to collect every single egg while everything else stuck to my feet.
I must have been quite a sight, for when I’d hobble out with the basket cradled in my arms, Grandpa was usually bent over laughing. He’d just shake his head and holler in that deep southern drawl of his, “come on, boy” and lead me to the water pump. When he finished I was off like shot to the house and his butter churn.
For Grandpa, churning butter was a daily ritual, but on Sundays he gave the job to me. Pulling the odd shaped contraption between my knees, I couldn’t wait to begin. At first it was easy, but sooner than later, it got harder and harder until I struggled to push it down. Eventually he’d stop me and while I inspected the tender parts of my palms and knees, he’d pour off the heavy cream and buttermilk, and then scoop the butter into a large bowl. Beaming proudly, I’d carry it into the house and present it to Grandma.
Biscuits were her specialty. She’d hold her mixing bowl in a headlock, stirring the ingredients with a huge wooden spoon that sometimes doubled as a paddle for me. She never measured; just grab a handful of this or that. When the dough was ready, she’d roll it out, and then cut perfect round biscuits with a Mason jar lid.
Mom cooked the bacon, leaving just enough grease in the frying pan for the eggs. She’d add a dozen or so, and just before they were done, flip hot grease over the yokes to harden them.
My sisters didn’t make a big deal out of squeezing oranges. After cutting them in halves and picking out the seeds, one would squeeze while the other waited for the juicer to clog. Then together, they’d use their fingers, swirling the pulp until the blockage was freed. They claimed it made the orange juice taste sweeter, gave it body, but I suspect they used their fingers to make me sick.
By the time our Sunday brunch was ready, platters of eggs and bacon, toast, and bowls of grits, adorned Grandma’s dining room table. It was magnificent in its simplicity, a feast of kings and I suddenly missed it.
“Papa?” It was my six-year-old granddaughter tapping me on the arm, jolting my long forgotten memories from my mind.
“What sweetheart,” I answered as the last of the memories flickered and died. It was a shame they fled so quickly. She would have enjoyed seeing how grand it was way back then.
“What are you doing?” she asked, watching me suspiciously.
“I was just remembering another breakfast in another place.” I answered, unfolding her napkin onto her lap. Somehow I didn’t think she’d understand my melancholy if I tried to explain it. But she fooled me. She hesitated before speaking, as though phrasing her words just right.
“There’s too many strangers here, isn’t there?” She squeezed my arm in defense of her nervousness. She wasn’t fond of crowds, always shied away from them. But her next question caught me by surprise. “Why can’t we have our own Sunday brunch at your house?”
I smiled. What a wonderful idea! I envisioned the rebirth of a forgotten family tradition. “That’s a great idea,” I said. “We’ll make our own Sunday Brunch just like we did when I was your age. How’s that sound to you?”
“Grreeeaat!” she said mimicking Tony the Tiger. “I’ll make the toast.”
“Yeah, and I’ll make the butter.” I added.
Her squeaky laughter bubbled.
“What?” I asked smiling.
“Papa, you don’t make butter,” she giggled. “You buy it!”