Breakfast at the Nelson's

Breakfast at the Nelson's          

Sizzling cooking scorched the chilly autumn air leaving behind a singed smoky odor while Marta padded around the old farmhouse kitchen humming a melancholy tune from a song she no longer knew the words.  She still arose at the same hour though she did not notice that morning light would not appear for another hour.  With love, she cooked breakfast - the most important meal of the day.  That is what she remembered.

A mewing feline pranced and weaved around and through Marta's ankles.  After she turned the already crisp bacon, she scooped up the mangy spotted cat and hugged it to her breast before releasing her into the damp darkness.  "Shoo Tatters, before Lars sees you.  Warped hinges screeched despite Marta's gentle closing of the door.

She resumed kneading dough after wiping her hands on a frayed apron that protected her drab-floral housedress, and then dropped dollops of the sticky thick mixture into unequal portions onto a bent cookie sheet.  A few tufts of cat hair sprouted from some of the clumps of dough.  Marta's forgotten bifocals hung from a plain limp chain fastened with a safety pin around her neck. With good intentions, she shoved the pan inside the hot oven and closed it with a plump hip.

She gave old Monty a ham bone and the black Labrador waddled off to the hearth without giving Marta nary a glance of gratitude for his treat.  Monty thudded to the floor in his special place where a warm crackling glow of embers became a cozy place to indulge. 

The arthritis in Marta's hands was more distressing than usual this morning, but she continued to hum and get breakfast ready for Lars.  The bedsprings groaning upstairs and a footfall on the ceiling above warned he would be down in less than five minutes.  Lars' growling stomach and fierce appetite upon awakening would have him eager to devour everything that was set before him.  Marta hurried and heaped his meal onto a less chipped china plate, then poured two cups of steaming black coffee, hoping none would spill over onto the mismatched saucers.  Marta didn't notice speckles of coffee grinds surfacing to the top in the oily mixture of each cup, but placed it all on the worn tablecloth that covered a wooden table with shaky legs.  She soon recalled the overcooked prickly-looking biscuits and with quivering hands carried these rattling rocks to the breakfast table before Lars clumped down the stairs, grunting with every step and adjusting his stretched-out suspenders over his meaty shoulders.

"Good morning, Lars," said Marta.

"Woman," was all he mumbled and took his usual seat facing the back door and without grace bent over his food to eat in silence.  The Labrador loped over and sat at his master's side panting for attention.  Lars paused to beam Monty a grateful smile, then scratched the rump of his favorite pet and chomped into a dark biscuit using his other hand.
 
After a long time, after Lars had drunk his last cup of coffee, Tatters snuck back in and curled up on Marta's lap.  They all sat in the dingy white curtained kitchen listening to the clock tick-tock into further senility...the only sound since Lars had stopped choking.  It was a peaceful moment for Marta as she looked at Lars slumped over with his head resting in congealed egg yolk.  She leaned across the table and yanked out the hairball that had lodged in her husband's throat.

Marta sighed and massaged the pain in her chapped hands that soon would become worse.  She began humming a tune and cradled the warm cat of kindness in her arms.  Tatters' sandpaper tongue licked at her mistress's sore bulging knuckles, both of them ignoring Monty's whine for attention. 

The mutual snub would have assuaged Tatters' heart forever, until the roar of snoring rattled the kitchen table.  Eternity snapped from the cheerless morning and with it came the familiar warning.  "Shoo, Tatters," said Marta.  Then she made a pillow with her arms on the table to rest her weary head, even though there was wood to chop.


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