Sunday was dad's day to cook. He didn't willingly cook on other days. But, Sunday, that was his day to pull out all the stops.
Instead of breakfast, he did a real, classic brunch. He made fluffy short stack pancakes. Two to a plate, with all the stuff that makes them good; syrup was Log Cabin, or after it came along, Mrs. Butterworth. Real butter till Blue Bonnet came along. And fruit. I put strawberries and bananas on mine. Sometimes we had blueberries.
He also made either scrambled eggs or omelets. Sometimes they were ham and cheese, others, we got crumbled bacon.
Once in a while I got to make French toast, for some reason he did not like making that. We had the same condiments with that as we did with the pancakes or the waffles. He made those once in a very blue moon.
Looking back, it's a wonder we didn't all die of heart attacks before we were thirty. Dad was only fifty three when he died of a blood clot hitting his angina. Would not be surprised if those incredible breakfasts contributed.
The reason mom was not in the cooking part of the story was that she only cooked when she had to do it; except on holidays.
She had us all buffaloed into thinking she could not cook till we got the Friendly Cafe. She was actually a fine cook.
SunWe, 2,22,14/ Pancake Challenge; Dad's Sunday Brunch