Breakfast

I don't eat breakfast. I never seem to find the energy in the morning to actually make myself something. This has been the case for the last five or so years now. Honestly I don't see the reason for breakfast. I don't really see any difference in the way my brain functions or the way my body works. I don't feel healthier. I don't particularly like the food that breakfast has to offer. I guess you could say I hate breakfast.
When I was a kid my Nana and Papa used to watch my brother and I in the morning before we went to school. On the weekends we would go to their house. I could watch my Papa make French Toast for hours. He was so meticulous with every little detail. The temperature had to be just right, there had to be the perfect amount of milk in the egg, and the bread had to soak for at least six seconds on each side before making its way into the frying pan. My brother and I would race to see who could eat the fastest as they came off the pan. This was our treat. My Nana would only eat one (she was tiny). He didn't make this for anyone else. Even as we grew older, and visits became fewer and more far between, there was always french toast.
After my Papa passed away I tried a few weak attempts at recreating his french toast but nothing was ever like the original. Up until last week it had been two years since I had even tried. I went on a vacation with a few friends where waking up late was not only an option, but it was preferred. One night I informed everyone that in the morning I was going to make breakfast. I thought it would be nice to have another crack at it and see if anyone liked my french toast. 
The smell of bacon at nine is what drove most of the house to wake up and come down for breakfast. From there I proceeded with fixing the stove to the right temp, getting my ingredients in order, and keeping my eye on clock. I heard the sizzle of the first slice hitting the pan and my mind drove out all other thought except those of my Nana and Papa. I remembered their house, my Nana's dorky shoes, my Papa's garden. I remembered hot dogs and spaghettios for dinner while we watched "Wheel of Fortune." I remembered Papa falling asleep in his NAVY chair while watching college football. I remembered my mornings with french toast.
My breakfast came out alright and everyone seemed to enjoy it. I didn't have any of it. I don't like breakfast. I only like my Papa's french toast.


...Maybe life is finding the right people to make breakfast for.