As it was Fionnuala’s birthday the other day, I bounced down the stairs and grandly announced I was going to make breakfast for everyone. I zoomed off to the village shop, returning with bacon, sausages and fresh bread. Throwing them onto the grille, I began to probe the Black clan for orders as they blearily emerged from under duvet covers. Everything was going swimmingly. Or so I thought.
Fionnuala queried what type of bread I had purchased. If it was a pan loaf, she wanted it toasted, but untoasted if a plain loaf. Lightly buttered, bacon and sausage. Sorted. Hannah wanted sausage, not bacon, while Rebecca wanted bacon as opposed to sausage. Even though the former likes bacon on her burgers and the latter sausages in her hot dog. Er….right.
My head was already starting to spin and the anxiety levels rising as Adam emerged from his lair. He wanted bacon on plain bread. Or was it sausage on toast? I looked despairingly at Charlie the border terrier who sat patiently at my feet awaiting his sausage. Bacon? Either way, his dog food would sit uneaten while there were tastier treats on offer from his human masters.
Had there been vegetarians or vegans in the house, I fear my brain would have imploded. I slaved over the breakfast counter, sweat lashing from my brow, muttering under my breath, while simultaneously ensuring all and sundry that everything was under control and I was ‘just fine.’ There was nothing could tip me over the edge. I was on the brink of a culinary conquest of epic proportions.
Until I asked Fionnuala if she wanted a cup of tea. Why, yes she did. Not too weak and not too strong. With milk. No sugar. Oh and when it’s made, can you top it up with cold water? Which necessitated making the tea, then pouring half of it down the sink again. My mind was well and truly boggled. I eventually slumped into an armchair, mission accomplished but utterly exhausted.
I eat most things. Apart from Brussel Sprouts, don’t get me started on them. And beetroot. But I now understood how frustrated Fionnuala would get when she compared making dinner in our house to working in a hotel, cooking five different dishes at a time. Why couldn’t we all eat the same thing? Spoilt rotten we were. I can only now nod in agreement at the varied palates of the Black household.
We are all very different people, with eclectic tastes and preferences when it comes to most matters. Yet, we are all part of the one family and somehow, despite all said differences, we somehow make it work. We are one. A largely functioning one, despite all the hiccups and glitches along the way. We can’t choose our family, unlike our friends. So we have to make it work, knuckle down, and get on with it.
It’s all about compromise. Compromise and a generous topping of patience. We adapt, we agree to disagree, we give and take. Yet the central core remains intact, the bond that holds it all together. Love is the glue. A love which forms the cornerstone of this crazy, chaotic household. Although it might be a while before I volunteer to cook breakfast again. I think I need a lie down after all that.
Sausage? Bacon? Veggie? How divided is your household when it comes to breakfast?