I’m pretty bad about eating breakfast, long referred to as the “most important meal of the day” by early risers of far more importance and social influence than me.
My father, who grew up during the Great Depression, was a master of Sunday morning biscuits and gravy while my abuela, who grew up on the Borderlands, would get up at the crack of dawn and make the best damn Mexican breakfast you’ve ever tasted. After they died, breakfasts were never quite the same to me, lacking in both regional tastes and familial meaning.