Where Breakfast Comes From

Here is your breakfast. Warm bread, soft in the middle.

In some houses it’s toast. In some houses it’s roti. In some houses it’s a bun with seeds on top. But everywhere, everywhere, it starts the same way —

with a seed.

A tiny seed, tucked into the brown earth, fast asleep.

Then came the rain. Pit-pat, pit-pat. “Wake up, seed! Drink up!”

Thank you, rain.

Then came the sun. Warm, warm, warm. “Grow up, seed! Reach high!”

Thank you, sun.

And the seed grew into wheat — tall and gold, a whole field of it, swishing in the wind like the sea. Swish, swish.

Then came the farmer, early in the morning, working and working until all that gold was gathered in.

Thank you, farmer.

Then the mill ground the wheat — round and round, round and round — until it turned into flour, soft as snow.

Thank you, mill, going round.

Then the flour rode to the shop, and somebody carried it home, and then — the best part — somebody’s hands got busy in the kitchen. Mixing, patting, rolling. Maybe Mama’s hands. Maybe Baba’s. Maybe Nana’s, with the gold bangle going clink.

Thank you, busy hands.

And NOW look — here it is on your plate. Warm bread, soft in the middle. It took the earth and the rain and the sun and the farmer and the mill and the shop and the hands — all of them, working together — just to reach you.

Your whole breakfast is full of helpers. Every bite has everybody in it.

So before it’s all gone —

Thank you, everyone in the bread!

Chomp.

Mmm. You can taste the sunshine. It’s in there too.