Alarm clocks

It’s jarring, the way we are awakened these days. We go from a deep restful sleep to a phone screaming in our ear. One second, we’re dreaming of rainbows and butterflies and the next thing you know there’s a demon on the nightstand yelling at us that a new day has begun.

No wonder we’re all so jumpy; our days start with the equivalent of a tornado siren and fire alarm. It’s the auditory version of slamming headfirst into a brick wall at 100 miles-per-hour.

It used to not be this way, at least in the summertime at Nana’s house. In that house the alarm was more subtle. It reassured you that your day was going to be filled with love, patience, and most of all really good food.

It would start slow at first with soft clinks of the cast iron skillet gently landing on the stove. You might be having a dream about baseball and the cracking of an egg would be mistaken for a home run being hit into left field. The smell was next.

It was like a Looney Tunes cartoon; as the bacon was fried on the stove the smell would meander through the kitchen door, around the corner and then into the bedroom where you were sleeping. Once it hit your nose it drew you in. It carried you, still half asleep, from the antique bed you had slept in to the old farm table where breakfast awaited you.

Once you found your seat you would be confronted with the most beautiful sight you could ever hope to see at 7 a.m.: a plate filled with eggs, bacon and fluffy buttery biscuits. A glass of apple juice to wash it down with was the chef’s kiss, or in this case, the warm embrace of a woman who had made a life out of cooking for those she loved.

And if none of those things did the trick to wake you up, she’d lick her finger and stick it in your ear.

Jacob Hatcher Columnist