The Taste of Mornings

The Taste of Mornings

One bathroom, eight kids set the scene for organized chaos each morning. The eldest (me) had the first allotted 15 minutes and the rest followed. Of course in order to accommodate everyone time enough to ready for school, the first slot was the earliest. So there I was first up, first washed, first ready. I was steadfast in my refusal to be hampered by the loud knocks on the bathroom door for miscellaneous siblings insisting they had to use the toilet. I wouldn’t give up a second of my time.

I remember so fondly the smells as I would descend the stairs into our kitchen. Always the smell of toast coming from an old fashioned toaster that required opening up to a flat position and then closing each side. Toast mixed with warm, hissing radiators. Then there was the ubiquitous smell of coffee. An old tin coffee pot with a glass top would start bubbling and the aroma would fill my nose and color the day begun.

Now the trip downstairs was not to be forgotten. The walls were covered with wall paper that depicted women with great coiffures and wide ball gowns. The men had wigs with pony tails and wore tight pants and long jackets. I did not know of Johann Strauss or the Emperors Waltz, but I was there when looking at the wall paper. I would sit on one step and stare at the women with their fancy ball gowns. In my mind I would fill in the black and white sketches with vivid colors and see the ivory of their skin and blue of their eyes. I was totally mesmerized and sure I was meant for such galas. On many occasions I was positive I had been kidnapped from some Royal Family and plucked into this alien family. I could not hold on to that theory for too long since I was the spitting image of my mom. The first down, the first born, the first arrival to the kitchen had to set the table, and there was always a little baby that needed attention. I especially remember Kathy who was so delicate of frame and would reach her arms for me from the office turned den. It was a wonderful way to start the day, with a warm, young little infant in my arms as I sang made up lullabies to her.

We usually had oatmeal with brown sugar and rich creamy milk. I balked at that preferring a slice of apple pie, or something sweeter; my downfall till this day. The irony is I love oatmeal now because those mornings that seemed so ordinary then, come flooding back like sunshine in the taste of each spoonful.