Healthy Start

Before I go into breakfast this morning, I will give you a synopsis of my evening. I vascillated between seething anger and despair after reading hours of news last night. Humor was absent along with any sense of joy. The amount of suffering right now is too much to bear, but bear we must, in order to be awake. I find the best writing about our political nightmare and country right now is Jon Katz's blog at

He writes eloquently of the political storm we are in, hope for our country, perspective and history, and what changes will come from this. He weaves humor, empathy, and facts in thought provoking posts day after day. He is my inspiration for this blog along with his wife Maria who is a fine writer herself at

If it wasn't for these two, I would not continue to take a stab at this blog everyday trying my hardest to write my truth. We all need our heroes. These two are mine.

Now, back to breakfast.  Staying at this hotel which cost us a pretty penny while getting our van serviced, I was excited to learn they served breakfast as part of the cost of the stay. One of my favorites things about staying at hotels, is the free breakfast. What we call in our family, "the waffle room". My nieces baptized the breakfast room at hotels, the waffle room, for the waffle maker usually standing on the counter at most hotel breakfast buffets with a dispenser of thick syrup by its side.

Since, COVID the free breakfasts have disappeared.  So when I arrived at our hotel to be processed for check in, I noticed the sign in the lobby announcing breakfast was back as "grab and go".  Needless to say I was excited. It conjured up memories of my partner and I splurging at a Hilton in Bakersfield. If you are going to splurge on a higher end hotel, I suggest saving it for dusty flea bitten towns that you can't find a decent motel to save your life. Sorry Bakersfield. Anyway, the Hilton served a lavish buffet all you can eat buffet that I still fondly remember. I am sure I added poundage at that stay.

This morning, my partner got up at his usual 5 a.m. By 6:12 am, I jumped up knowing that breakfast started at 6 a.m. I threw on my clothes from last night, fastened my sandals and my mask and headed for the lobby. In line, a Utility's worker waited impatiently to be checked out. I tried patiently to wait for my "grab and go" promising my partner, I would get his too.  After what seemed like a half hour, the hotel employee asked me to wait outside the breakfast room while he got me a coffee with two creams, my standard. I watched him peek in brown paper bags gathered on a moving cart. Behind me another guest arrived, positioning himself behind me, using his night shirt as a mask, pulling it up to cover his face. "Is there breakfast behind there", he asked. I responded to his eyes peering out from his t shirt. "Yes, they grab and go".  After rifling through the bags, the hotel worker opened the door and asked me if I wanted a waffle bag, a cereal bag, or a wrap bag. I hurriedly chose two wrap bags. Within seconds I had my coffee clutched in one hand, the two bags in the other, leaving tshirt man and the employee in the dust.

Back at the room, I excitedly opened my bag, my brows crinkled, I noticed my brain couldn't quite register what the twisted white paper was attached to a wooden stick. I took out one of our camping plates, carefully pulling out the breakfast items. One oats n honey granola bar (the cheapest bar you can buy, I know this one well), a yoplait ( I never buy yoplait, they don't care about skunks at all), and the twisted wrap which turned out to be a corn dog. A corn dog. Not just any old corn dog. A corn dog wrapped in, you got it, waffle room batter. 

That was the wrap.

I think my nieces would have been happy. Me. I can't explain to you properly the disappointment.

Tossing the breakfast aside. I sipped my coffee with two creams thinking of my mother and our last trip to Hawaii. She took me to Maui, my first and favorite island for my 50th birthday four and half years ago.  Every morning, my mom would get up at 5 am. In Maui, at 5 am the air is warm and the touch of breeze carresses your face in such a way that you know God loves you. With the sound of soft waves touching sand, my mom would walk across the street in the dark to the local bakery and order us a dozen malassadas, portugese donuts, hot from the oven, covered in sugar.  Every morning, we would sit and watch the sun come up drinking our coffee, eating the donuts still warm from the white bag.

We cried flying home. Somehow we knew times were changing.

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