the unbearable weight of loving yourself

content warning: disordered eating

I have always loved breakfast. Growing up as a good Catholic girl, after a marathon of church and Sunday school all six of us piled into our giant orange suburban and made the rounds: first to our neighborhood bagel shop to get the baker’s dozen, second to Wawa or Dunkin for coffee and donuts. It only took a few moments for our sticky fingers to fight over who would get the glazed and who would be left with the dry, brown, whole wheat looking ones. We would then sneak pop-ems into our mouths while we impatiently waited for the bacon to sizzle, my dad adding thick cuts of scrapple before cracking the eggs into the greasy pan. These big Sunday breakfasts have carried into my adult life; I love making egg sandwiches with avocado and cheese on the weekends, big cast iron skillets of shakshuka with bakery bread to dunk into the thick tomato sauce, french toast bakes or fluffy bagels with creamy rich cheese and cucumber crudite inside.