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Clarissa's Blog

An academic's opinions on feminism, politics, literature, philosophy, teaching, academia, and a lot more.

Sunday Breakfast

People on social media are discussing the Sunday family breakfasts they remember from their childhood. Not surprisingly, whatever they usually ate on those family Sunday mornings is still their favorite food. 

Our typical [very Soviet Ukrainian] Sunday breakfast consisted of baked potatoes, pickled cabbage fresh from the collective farmer market (yes, it’s what it was called), black rye bread, pickled cucumbers or tomatoes, and either salted herring or Soviet bologna (which tastes a million times better than the one you know.)

It’s still the food I’d choose over anything else.

What’s your childhood Sunday breakfast? Do you still like that food?

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7 thoughts on “Sunday Breakfast

  1. Stringer Bell on said:

    Stuffed parathas. Favorite filling radish, followed by potatoes. There’s an indian store not too far away that makes them very close to what I remember from childhood.

    This radish paratha was from last Friday:

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  2. At my aunt’s, popovers and I liked them. I don’t make them, though. At home, eggs, bacon, orange juice, whole wheat toast with butter, honey, and strawberry jam. Meh–greasy, sweet. I don’t do it. I like black bread with tomatoes, cucumbers, and medium-boiled eggs, which I learned of in Denmark; black bread with herring and/or Camembert, also learned of in Denmark; lighter bread with Danbo cheese and red currant or lingonberry jam, also Danish; kefir with black bread crumbs mixed with dark brown sugar, also Danish; none of these are necessarily Sunday things but as a spread to choose from, they would be. I also like, and this is a Sunday brunch out item, huevos rancheros, or menudo, or pozole. These are Mexican and we have them in California, and all the family likes them but they aren’t what was served at home.

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  3. Demotrash on said:

    We didn’t have any kind of special Sunday morning breakfast.

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  4. Breakfast isn’t that big a thing in South Florida (too hot) and my mother wasn’t an enthusiastic (or very good) cook. My father was a better cook but had no idea how to cook for kids. And we weren’t really a sit down family time kind of family (in metaphoric terms we were something like Spain- an uneasy coalition with various members seeking more autonomy or independence at different times)

    If there’s a Sunday meal I remember it would be from the summers I spent at my cousin’s in Florida cattle country. She was a very, very good (if unenthusiastic) cook and her mother-in-law was a fabulous old time southern cook who held weekly Sunday dinner (around 12 or one) blowouts for the extended family.

    There would be two or three main course dishes like baked ham, old style fried chicken or chicken fried steak and lots of side dishes like fresh cut green beans simmered with pork fat, collard greens, black eyed peas, sweet potatoes, homemade mashed potatoes, cornbread in a cast iron skillet, deviled eggs, potato salad etc and it was all washed down with massive quantities of ice tea (essentially sugar water with a tea-ish aftertaste). Classic Southern food can give Eastern Europe a run for its money in the unhealthy sweepstakes.

    Lemon meringue or pecan pies, cakes and homemade ice cream and the like would be the dessert.

    That’s maybe the (well made) food I have the fondest memories of from childhood. I also have some fond memories of various junk foods but we’ll skip over those in the name of simple decency.

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  5. My family had a lot of kids and not a lot of money. My favorite breakfast is still warm polenta with milk and honey. Sometimes we had real butter to put on it too, that was the best.

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  6. The most memorable childhood breakfast was pancakes with maple syrup because I hated it so much. We had to eat it a lot, it was ordered for us by adults at every childrens’ group and also for dinner at restaurants by parents because of the assumption that it was what children wanted. It tastes like death and it is very sugary and heavy and you want to die after trying to eat it. I would try my best and then lie on the floor as the ceiling reeled around me. Eventually I learned to beg for meat or milk or vegetables as an antidote, and people did not understand me but at least I knew what would help my system get over the shock of trying to eat this thing for politeness. I still can barely drive past a Waffle House or IHOP, will not go in, will not get within a block of where any pancake is served, and will not let syrup into any house I stay in. Horrible dish.

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