Bacon, eggs, toast

Dreams of my father.

Did I just now say dreams? I meant to say breakfast of my father. This is the breakfast my father ate some twenty years straight. And then there came a sudden change of heart, and a disruption with no clear path forward. The antagonism against fried food generally, the disparaging remarks relating to my mother's upbringing and her national background, the people who taught her, my mother's enduring loyalty as cook for my father and her cooking skills persisted for decades that followed. The disruptive change of heart, it was indeed heart-related, developed into an ongoing marital strain. He tried his own hand at cooking and failed. From my point of view he failed. He never did manage much of anything edible on his own, and he never did seem to grasp the basics of what is going on. That is what I saw. They lived and died in an age of convenience food, an entirely industrialized commercialized world with near zero relation nor connection to the sources of their food. Nearly nothing they ate was composed of primary ingredients. This breakfast is as close as they would ever get. Their bread of course mass produced. The process considered too mysterious and troublesome and time consuming to take on.