I busily turned the bacon in the pan, retrieved the eggs from the frig, set the butter out to soften, and opened the jar of fruit juice. The grandchildren are here. Time for a real breakfast. A break from cereal, donuts, or pop-tarts! So I thought.
I noticed the house was uncommonly quiet. Looked around. Nobody here except me. Who am I cooking for? I got the phone, called their dad.
“What happened to everyone,” I asked.
“Oh, I just took the kids out for a morning treat,” he responded.
My enthusiasm waned as I considered how my cooked breakfast was not going to mean much when challenged with donuts and orange juice in the paper boxes.
Minutes later the party members returned, complete with donuts, chocolate milk and juice in the trendy cartons.
I give dad credit. He didn’t let them eat the goodies until they gallantly ate Gramma’s cooking.
Now confession time. I ate the donut he brought for me while I put the finishing touches on the old fashioned kind of food. At least they waited for their bribe!