Breakfasts
By Ryan Sullivan
Blueberry Pancakes (2006)
When cut into, the blueberries popped into molten goo that could be mopped up by a slice of pancake. On Saturday mornings, the smell wafted up to my bedroom from downstairs. Big, puffy snowflakes were starting to fall outside my window. I let myself slip into blue dreams for a few minutes longer before heading down.
My parents were there, my sister not yet. Soon, all four of us would be at the table, enjoying that feeling of weekend freedom together. No rush to get anywhere, except for cartoons. There were glistening strips of bacon, too, resting on their paper towels. I reached for the maple syrup bottle. My parents sat stupefied as I drowned my cakes, soon only small islands surrounded by rising amber tides. I looked up at my parents with a composed face, and set the maple syrup back like I’d poured a completely normal amount.
Ice Cream (2009)
For breakfast? “Rules were meant to be broken,” said my friend. He was grinning, standing over the freezer, his gaze drawn away from the Eggo Waffles towards the shiny gold-rimmed pint. His parents were already both at work, the house empty, so we could have any breakfast we wanted. Why not ice cream? I was hesitant, still believing God was watching. Ice cream for breakfast was one of those sins that sealed one to a fate of eternal torment. But God’s wrath stood no chance against the Blue Bell cow. A smile crept across my face. We started scooping one, two, three, four scoops each, laughing maniacally.
Ramen Noodles (2017)
This was all I saw as I opened my desolate pantry, along with moth balls and skittering mouse footprints disturbing the dust. But I was in desperate need of calories after last night's degeneracy, inebriation, and failure. I set water on the stove to boil and dropped in the brick of noodles. As it started to soften and separate, I cracked in an egg and stirred it in. The bubbling soup cooked the yolk to a foam. Saturday morning sounds were starting on the street below my apartment. It was starting to sound like a beautiful day, taunting my hungover self, guilting me with its perfection.
The noodles finished cooking and I stirred in some sriracha that turned the egg foam a sunset orange-pink. Then I poured my soup into a bowl through ribbons of steam and ground some pepper on top. After the first bite settled into my belly, I felt revived enough to open my blinds, and bright beams lit my dungeon enough for me to squint and grunt in displeasure. Then I went back to crouching over my soup, slowly on my way to embracing the day.
Coffee (2019)
Surely not a breakfast, but I had no time for breakfast. The coffee in my thermos would be my motor. I pulled my beanie down over my ears, zipped up my coat, and took a sip of coffee. I braved the biting morning wind and shuffled down Hickok Street, and I had a sip of coffee. Five minutes until the bus would arrive at the stop. I needed to take the shortcut. I tucked my thermos in my pack so I could hop the fence. The fence dug into my hands, but I stuck the icy landing, then I took my thermos back out and had a sip of coffee.
I made the bus, and when I plopped into my seat, I had a sip of coffee. I tried to anticipate the trials the day had in store. A talk with a mentor I didn’t want to have. A class sitting next to a guy that annoyed me by clicking his pen incessantly–click click click click–a class sitting next to a girl I thought was cute. A project I had been putting off for 2 months.
Another sip of coffee. I stepped off the bus and zipped up my coat. Another sip of coffee. I went down the path with ice melt salt crunching under my feet, toward the red brick temple of learning and clicking pens. Another sip of… drained. I was buzzing and ready.
Blueberry Pancakes (2023)
The smell woke me just like those Saturdays as a kid, and for a moment I forgot how much time had passed. But it had been one of those blueberry dreams. I was alone in the apartment this morning. No pancakes waited at the table. A quick trip to the market across the street, and I had all the ingredients I needed. I sifted the flour and drew a pinch of salt, baking powder, and sugar. I whisked the milk and egg and melted butter. I stirred the two together and left it a bit lumpy (Dad always said don't whisk it too much). Then I dropped in those sweet sapphires.
The griddle was hot now and it sputtered and sizzled as I ladled on the batter. Bubbles around the outside led to bubbles in the middle meant they were ready to be flipped. A beautiful golden brown. As I sat down at the table with my plate I felt a wave of emotion. A weird mix of emptiness and warmth. A stack of pancakes shouldn’t be eaten alone, but this morning the fluffy cakes, and the molten blueberries, and the sweet maple syrup, gave me just enough comfort, far away from home. It reminded me of those Saturdays, and of what I was doing all of this for, and helped me start a new day.
Ryan Sullivan grew up in Colorado and now attends medical school at the University of South Florida. He enjoys writing in his free time. Ryan is famous for being unable to keep a house plant alive beyond two weeks, yet still wants to become a doctor. God help us all.
