When I was a young boy with five brothers and sisters all getting ready for school at the same time my mother didn't have time to make us breakfast. She and Dad would get up before daylight and have theirs, and if you were up early she'd cook you a pancake too, but after seven o'clock we were on our own. She'd leave the griddle hot, the batter mixed and ready, a carton of eggs and a pound of bacon on the counter, but that was it. If you wanted it cooked you had to cook it yourself.
Years later I watched my young bride frying eggs. She had a lot of heart but you could tell she was green.
"Honey, why don't you let me cook breakfast?"
And for fifteeen years afterward I did, almost every morning. Pancakes, waffles, biscuits, crêpes; eggs over easy, scrambled with cheese, sunny side up; bacon, sausage, ham; blueberries, whipped cream, home made syrup and blackberry jam.
When the kids came along I had cheering section. First one up called the shots. What do you want for breakfast? Waffles! No, crêpes! With whip cream!
Those were the days, but they're gone now. The kids are grown, we're watching the carbs, and I rarely eat breakfast any more.
I miss it, though. More than the food I miss the challenge, the excitement. So when we were divvying up meals for the family campout — there will be fifty of us this year — I raised my hand and volunteered for Sunday breakfast. Not all alone, of course. Randy said he'd bring twenty pounds of bacon.
I first saw this story last May, but the source was unnamed and no one else followed up on it so I had my doubts, and then I lost the link. (Bad blogger!) Now the story is back in a new book by Richard Miniter, who still does not name the source. My hunch is Leon Panetta. 
Yeah, right. Nice try, lefties.
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