Brunch

Brunch
By
Sheldon Doyle

Our name echoed over the sounds of clanging plates, trays, and water glasses shuffled by
hungry patrons and busy busboys. I led the way to the hostess who apologized for the
inconvenience of our wait. As we settled around our table, I noticed a distinctive floor
arrangement in the center of the dining room, a blend of palms and short ferns arranged
around an unusual wooden cask full of walking canes. At first I didn’t recognize it.
Taking another look, I realized it was an old butter churn. The last time I had seen one
was when I was growing up on Grandpa’s farm in Florida. As I stared at it, I drifted in
thought and a long buried memory came to life.
Grandpa’s churn sat in the corner of the screened porch, the press poised in midstroke
as if waiting for his return. It was almost as tall as me, sort of oblong and well
worn from years of use.
Sunday mornings we did chores together. We set out for the pasture, Grandpa
leading the way in his bib overalls and t-shirt— a big, half gnawed cigar clamped
between his teeth at the corner of his mouth, smoke swirling around his head, while I
trailed behind with the milking tins. I wasn’t very big, so I had to trot, skip, and hop to
keep up.
The aroma of his cigar flowed and mingled with the fragrant orchids, magnolia
blooms, and flower patches surrounding his house. The air smelled sweeter on Sundays,
as if God was making a special effort to make this day more enjoyable.
His barn was one big building and served as garage, tool shed, milking stall and
chicken coop. Inside, Bertha, the eldest of Grandpa’s cows, watched his every move,
bellowing the whole time. He’d shove her and she’d begrudgingly back up. He spoke to
her gently and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine him talking to me in the same way. I
thought it was okay for him to talk like that. I guess he loved us both and I didn’t mind
sharing him with her. Halfway through milking, Grandpa would hustle me off to the
chicken coop to gather eggs. That was my job. When I was finished, every egg was
collected and everything else stuck to my bare feet.
Grandpa laughed seeing me hobbling out, walking stiff legged on my heels,
cradling a basket of eggs. He’d shake his head and holler, “Come on, boy” before
heading to the house. We always stopped at the water pump where he would wash my
feet. At the house we would clean, check, and sort the eggs. Afterwards, we’d sit
churning butter on the front porch.
He’d set the churn between his knees, pull the press out and inspect the insides.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he’d carefully cover the top with a clean
cotton cloth and strain the milk through into the churn. When it was all set to go, he’d
turn it over to me. I churned while he watched. Now and then he’d stop me and lift the lid
to check inside. Eventually he’d pour off the heavy cream and buttermilk while I rested
my weary arms and inspected the tender parts of my palms. I didn’t know what happened
inside the churn to turn milk into butter. I still don’t. Grandpa scooped the results into
Grandma’s butter bowl, and placed the cream and butter milk into the icebox.
When we had finished cleaning up, our Sunday brunch was ready. Platters of eggs
and bacon, toast, and bowls of grits adorned Grandma’s dining room table. Magnificent!
It was the best. The only thing I really wanted was the butter. It was so creamy and tasted
so sweet…
“Papa?” It was my nine year old granddaughter tapping me on the arm. The
memory dissolved.
“What, Sweetheart?” I answered.
“Why can’t we have brunch at your house?”
I smiled. What a wonderful idea! I envisioned the rebirth of a forgotten family
tradition.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “We’ll make our own Sunday brunch, just like we
did when I was your age.”
“Grreeeaat!” she said mimicking Tony the Tiger. “I’ll make the toast.”
“Yeah and I’ll make the butter.”
Her squeaky laughter bubbled.
“Papa, you don’t make butter,” she giggled. “You buy it.”