For the Love of Breakfast
(and each other)
I was awake with the sun, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, sitting next to my husband like a labrador retriever puppy brimming with energy and ready to take on the day nearly every Saturday morning the first few years of our marriage. My husband, Michael, was like a grizzly bear in mid January, fast asleep, unaware of his hunger and completely without resolve to move. I desperately wanted to wake the bear. I would start out sweetly trying to coax him out of bed, then I would shift to being a little more obvious with my advances—I would steal the blankets, turn on lights, nag and beg, and eventually he would relent at the promise of an afternoon nap.
My goal wasn’t getting him awake and out of bed to match my energy level and to simply eat cereal, it was absolutely to go out for breakfast. Chicago had endless incredible breakfast joints, some within walking distance, many out of budget and far away, but I liked a good challenge. We got into a rhythm of eating at a place called the Alps that was in our neighborhood of Irving Park. Every single time we went, I got the Mediterranean omelet with feta that was so big, I could eat half the next day. We would branch out every few weeks and go to Ann Sathers (for the cinnamon rolls, duh!), Pannenkoeken, or Walkers Bros. On one occasion, we splurged on the less filling and more expensive Bon Appetit Creperie, and I’ll never forget the sheer unabashed joy I experienced when, after playing a game at the table, I won a free meal. For poor newlyweds, this was a top tier experience, guaranteeing yet another Saturday breakfast being in the budget.
Speaking of budget, those Saturday breakfasts were the first thing to go when we actually sat down and budgeted. I remember pouting and thinking, “you mean I have to wake up and MAKE my own eggs and toast when there is all this amazing food down the street!?”. It’s true that Michael hated waking up early, and that he had the hard job of holding me back from weekly breakfast dates, but he loved me and honored my requests as often as he could, happily scarfing down omelets and pancakes with his brekkie loving bride.
Once our children were born, we rallied for a couple of breakfasts out a year. It is a known fact that eating out with young toddlers has the potential to be more stressful than it is worth, and I'm here to testify that it was an absolute disaster every time. I can picture my guys on the curb playing with sidewalk chalk outside our favorite local breakfast joint as we wait 30 mins for a table, Michael swallowing his internal screams as he walks our irate three year old back to the car to change him in the trunk after he swallows chalk and poops his pants. Did I make this scenario up? I’m not sure, but it’s very probable and all too real. That man loves me, and breakfast out has always been the proof.
***
The year 2015 was a really long one in our marriage. Our second child was born on the last day of 2014, then six months later my thyroid died and I spent the year fighting to get my health back until midway through 2015 when it was Michael’s turn to find himself barely able to function on a daily basis. I remember finding him under his desk mid-work day trying to sleep and writhing from pain, test after test revealing no answers for his agony. The final straw was on our way home from the only couple’s trip we’d ever taken with friends. We crossed the Mackinac Bridge from the Upper Peninsula (#PureMichigan) and made it to a favorite pizza spot in Traverse City with the hope that eating a good meal would make Michael feel better than he had all day. We ate some fresh wood fired pizza and beer and minutes later he was a wreck. A few days after we arrived home, he got the results: Celiac disease, an autoimmune disease that was already part of his genetics, but triggered immediately following his vasectomy a year prior. All the whole wheat and fresh gluten filled food I had been stuffing him full of was literally murdering his intestines. The medicine I was trying to use to cure him ended up being the poison.
We had his parent’s over for dinner that night and I remember I was holding whole wheat spaghetti noodles in my hand, ready to put them in the pot to boil, saying, “can’t you just eat this gluten one more time?”. The answer, my friends, was absolutely not, and I was absolutely not ok with it.
All I thought about those first few days (weeks…months) was:
-What about all my pots and pans and Tupperware and cutting boards, do we really have to buy everything new!?
-what about all my perfected recipes, do I really have to start over!?
-What about going out to eat, what about BREAKFAST!??
I wasn’t like a grizzly bear sleeping, I was more like a very angry raccoon stuck in the bottom of a dumpster. He did gently encourage me to maybe let go of some of my concerns so that he wouldn’t die. He coaxed me from my garbage den, where I wallowed in thinking we were doomed, into the morning light of an unexpected, but completely grace infused pivot. We got rid of gluten, he got rid of feeling like he was dying. We got new cooking gear, I got good at making delicious gluten free food. We stopped going to our usual restaurants, and we found a few good and safe ones. He told me I should eat gluten free food too when we went out so I could still kiss him. I said no, maybe, sometimes.
***
This Saturday morning, I sat next to Michael on the couch and said, “The only thing we have to eat for breakfast this morning is toast.” He knew what was coming next. Unlike the days of potty training and 6 am wake up calls and dragging along diaper bags and toys to keep the kids busy, we had to drag our boys out of bed at 8 am and into the car. They both told me they would rather be sleeping or watching Mark Rober on you-tube, to which I said, cool, let's go get pancakes.
They sat across from us in their own world, only inviting us in when they wanted to play the drawing game we play at every restaurant. Michael ordered the vegan french toast with a side of bacon…yes, you read that correctly. These days he is struggling with another unknown ailment, experimenting with cutting out dairy and eggs, and our favorite gluten free breakfast place also caters to those needs. I made fun of him a little because he deserves it, and it makes light of something that isn’t actually very fun. We played a few rounds of “would you rather” with our boys as they devoured bacon and shared hello’s with a few church members who also came in for the good food.
I remembered to make Michael tea before we left for the restaurant because he isn’t drinking coffee either, and the night before I stopped to get him almond milk so he could have some cream. I had half my eggs benedict leftovers for breakfast the next day, and they were just as good as my preferred omelet from 13 years ago. Every year we get a little more practice in dying to our own desires, in choosing one another over comfort. I’m not looking forward to our next pivot, but I know when the time comes, God will give me the grace to do it, maybe even with a better attitude this time. Marriage is sanctifying in all things; in sickness and in health…and in breakfast.
***
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love After Babies"
I loved your conclusion too! "Every year we get a little more practice in dying to our own desires, in choosing one another over comfort. I’m not looking forward to our next pivot, but I know when the time comes, God will give me the grace to do it ..." - powerful stuff! As someone who has dietary issues, I SO appreciate my husband's grace and patience. Simple things like family breakfasts and eating out aren't so simple anymore, but we make it work :)
My husband and I used to go out to brunch every week after church, and it was one of the first things we cut when our kids were born and we had to tighten the budget. This piece made me think of all those sweet memories!