chapter 6 - tears of joy

I shudder a bit at my own dark delight over the changes in my appetite and my body.

Then, I start thinking about you and how I need to make sure you are well-fed.

I fix my omelette first, then put it in the oven warmer with the pancakes. I check on the biscuits and cinnamon rolls, feeling delight at seeing the dough expanding and rising. I think about you again. How you have expanded and grown doughy. How soft you are now. How warm and round and expanding. Just like dough in the oven.

I fry the vegetables for your omelette in melted butter. They pop loudly in the skillet and brown a bit. I scoop them out, then pour in the stirred half-dozen eggs. I feel like this is love. My love for you. The care I take in preparing your meals with ingredients from our ridge top farm, how we grew these veggies together and cared for the chickens and now, I add the ingredient of my love for you. It all feels so beautiful, I am nearly overwhelmed with emotion. I brush a tear from my eye so I can see when to flip the eggs. I place the veggies carefully on the eggs, then top them with homemade cheese which melts over the vegetables as I roll the omelette up and turn down the burner.

Everything is ready now, and I fix the food on the tea trolley. A feast for us, two people madly in love with each other. Coffee and fresh cream and sugar. A large steaming pot and two cups. Fresh sliced strawberries topped with sugar. Piles of pancakes, hearts filled with blueberries which have popped in the heat, making lovely purple shapes In the fried batter.

A stack of biscuits. A large bowl of soft white butter. Jam and jellies. Syrup for the pancakes. A pile of cinnamon rolls still steaming, the sugary glaze melting and shining in the morning sunlight.

The omelettes, large and overflowing with sautéed vegetables and melted cheese spilling out of the ends. Overflowing with love, I think.

I place a vase of fresh cut wildflowers on the trolley along with cloth napkins folded like swans on the pond. I adjust the dishes and condiments so everything’s perfectly in place.

My eyes soak in the lovely vision of our morning feast, the colors, the textures, the shimmer of heat rising from the small mountains of food. I inhale deeply the aromas of foods mixing into a symphony of deliciousness nearly overwhelming my senses.

I push the trolley toward the bedroom and through the doorway, its wheels squeaking and groaning, protesting the weight of such a gluttonous breakfast.

I see your beautiful face there, and smell that lovely aroma of you warm beneath the sheets. This moment. It nearly undoes me, the grand beauty of this moment. Your face is so adorable in sleep, smiling from journeys in some pleasant dreamland. I don’t feel I should spoil this moment by waking you. Still, the food is hot and ready for us to devour it.

Your chubby cheeks, white and flawless, your dimples. Your full-moon face. Oh. So much, so much to adore and praise and be grateful for.

I feel another tear of joy in my right eye. Then one in my left. The tears slowly flow down the sides of my nose. I taste their saltiness on my lips. My vision blurs with tears of joy as I bend over and kiss your cheek.

“Morning, Love,” I whisper into your ear, my lips grazing your soft blond hair.