Sep 11, 2005 By Miles Davin 4 min read

I wrote once before that our family tradition was Sunday morning breakfasts that Grammy cooks for the whole family – our three sons and daughter and their families – plus four to eight guests. This goes on just about every Sunday. Except for last Sunday. The Thursday before, Ruth left me. This is the first time since we’ve been married that she went off and left me.

She and our daughter, Polly, flew out to Battle Mountain, Nev., to visit our granddaughter, Keely, who just started teaching there, so she wasn’t here to cook for all of us.

I wasn’t worried though. I had three able sons who are great cooks themselves to call on. Any of them would be glad to stand in for Grammy for one Sunday.

I mentioned to Miles Jr. that I would have to cook breakfast next Sunday. He and his wife, Holly, both broke out laughing. My son then informed me that I can’t even boil water right. My son, Jack, the hydroponics tomato man, told me to stick to setting the table and leave the cooking to us.

His son, Casey, spoke up and said, “I’ll cook breakfast for you all.”

I said, “You, what do you know about cooking?”

He replied, “I can cook a mean French toast.”

I asked him where he learned to do that, and he replied, “At Scout Camp.”

I looked at his dad, and he shook his head, and said, “That’s right, he cooks a tasty French toast.”

The thought of having my 11-year-old grandson cooking for about 20 people whetted my whistle. I said, “It’s settled then. You’ll have to come in early on Sunday morning, though.”

His reply was, “I get up around six every morning and make coffee for dad anyway.”

They came waltzing through the door about 8 Sunday morning with all the ingredients under their arms, and I was amazed at how he took control right off the bat. He told me that he needed something to fry on. I got out a big griddle. He informed me that he didn’t want anything that big. “Just get me a good sized frying pan.” That I did. Then, “I need a big bowl.” I got him one, and he started cracking open eggs into it by using only one hand.

He put three dozen eggs into that bowl. Then he started mixing (his secret recipe) into the bowl too, like cinnamon, etc. He then asked me for something that I had no idea of what he was talking about. When I looked at him dumfounded, he replied, “A hand egg beater, Grampy.” I stood back and watched him work around that kitchen in a flurry. His dad just stood there with his arms folded, and a big smirk on his face. He got as big a kick out of it as his son did. They sure put one over on old Grampy.

I thought that I would pitch in and help out. I started making sausage patties and putting them into another frying pan. When he saw what I was doing, he grabbed the spatula out of my hand and tried to turn one over. “Grampy,” he said, “You gotta use some butter with these things.” “You’re not boiling water.” “Sit down and drink your coffee.” Then he turned the gas down to where it was supposed to be. I sat down and drank coffee.

He had everything ready by 9, and the crowd wouldn’t start coming until after the 8:30 Mass. He thought that he would go ahead and make two of them to test out the frying pan. I said, “Put them on my plate and I’ll test them out for you.” They were delicious.

Our friends, Bruce and Jan Shipe, and Bill Brown, and his son, Tucker, and his daughter, Emily, were here along with our whole family (except for Ruth and Polly). I don’t think that there was a single person here that didn’t congratulate him on the excellent breakfast.

So take heart Grammy, you are approaching 80; you should slow down, at least a little. If, on any given Sunday, you don’t feel quite up to it, don’t fight it. You have three sons who are considered good chefs, and now you also have Chef Casey.