Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: breakfast


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A moment.

Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. 

Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning. 

Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have? 

Here comes another, what will you choose?

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Kitchen conversations.

I always get up first to make breakfast. Alone in the kitchen, I’ll often have a conversation with the bread. After all, we have been intimate. It was just yesterday my hands were in the dough. It was just last night I swaddled it in a freshly ironed cloth, whispering of the tomorrow’s surprise — lavender honey. 

We made a trip to Valensole yesterday in search of the best. Nestled between fields of lavender, it wasn’t really a chance we were taking. There would be honey — Miel de lavande. A couple of small arrows at ankle height on a long stretch of gravel would lead us there on this Tuesday. After several second guesses, we would find the locked door of the farm house that said open Wednesdays and Saturdays. Still we jiggled the handle. We had come this far. We looked at each other and read the sign again. I cupped my hands around my face and pushed it up against the glass. I could see the jars of honey. We jiggled the handle again in disbelief. I don’t know how long we stood there. How can you measure time without honey that is just within reach? That’s when he walked through the shadows. Barefooted and bonjouring, he opened the door. Maybe the angels sang, or was the birds? We quickly stepped inside before he could change his mind. I didn’t need the spoonful he offered to know that I would love it, but I took it anyway. It lingered on my tongue and rolled my eyes into the part of my brain where pleasure lives. I could only say yes. Of course he didn’t take credit cards. What were we thinking? But Dominique saved the day with his checkbook, and I coddled the kilo of lavender honey back to the car. 

How could I not share the story with the bread as it toasted this morning. Even the coffee pot seemed to be listening. 

Needless to say, it didn’t disappoint.  Lavender honey on homemade bread. Wow. I smile at the silver medal from 2024’s Paris competition, proudly displayed on the honey jar — and laugh — because for me, us, it’s nothing but gold. 

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Nothing wasted.

There is a hungry woman at my table each morning and it is me.  I don’t know why it seems new. This same wood. These same chairs. Why should I be surprised by this bread? I made it with my own hands. But it IS new. I am new. And it feeds me with the chance, moving from table to tablet, the chance that I will put the words in a different order today, and somehow you will know all that I meant to say. Maybe they will push away the struggle, or broom a path. Tickle a wanting rib. Or maybe simply sit gently beside your expectant heart. 
I know most will scroll by. And that’s ok. Other words are calling. But who would I be if I didn’t try? We have to try. Believing that small difference, is still different. Small kindness is still kind. Small steps are still movement. So I type on. Hope on. And the page is not blank. And this day is not wasted. The lavender honey on this morning’s bread fuels the offered and open blank — telling me that pages weren’t meant to be followed, but written.

“I want to leave as few pages blank as possible.” Virginia Woolf

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Hotel breakfast.

Just because we didn’t leave the house doesn’t mean we didn’t go anywhere. 

It’s no secret that comfort can pack its bags and take off at any given moment. Knowing this to be true, I decided a long time ago that maybe I could open the suitcase for fear and anxiety — you know, nudge them off a little. 

So I invent things, like hotel breakfast. 

The night before last, I had terrible dreams. I don’t know that they were spurred on by the news, but I’m certain it didn’t help. So last night, getting ready for bed, I was determined not to watch anything political. The first video that came up in the rotation said “you can make bread at 8pm tonight.” I looked at the clock. 8:05. So I watched. And then mixed up the dough for the baguettes. I slept while the dough began to rise. I got up at 6am and finished the work. The house began to smell fantastic. I have made all kinds of bread, but never straight out of the oven for petit déjeuner. Topped with butter and honey — what a trip!!!! I’m still smiling from our mini vacation.

There are so many things we have to carry. We’re not given the option. But a lot of things we can let go. Even if just for the morning. And we can open our doors and windows to make room for the other things, like love, and fresh bread. We can open our hearts and tell joy, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.” 

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Sur la table.

It’s instinct now. I suppose I’ve done it for years, but for some reason I noticed it this morning. When making something on the stove, like this morning’s coffee, I have to tilt my head down and to the left. It’s no surprise that I’m taller than the last French generation, and the hood over the stove is a good reminder.

But I don’t really think about it. My head just seems to know, and makes the adjustment. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but what a marvelous creation — this brain!

This brain that worked for years and years processing one language. A brain that knew the signals and prompts. That navigated the grids and grins of one culture, now being asked to learn it all again, (and bend over a little if you don’t mind.) Even in the face of tears, and fears, and the I don’t want tos and the I cants, somehow it keeps going. Marvelous! And maybe it’s the heart that tells it so. Who can be sure who’s leading. That heart that got more than knocked by a kitchen corner and still keeps beating. So pained by love, still knowing there is nothing better. The heart that only smells the coffee brewing and looks forward to the day.

I mention it, not as a reminder of the struggle, but a reminder to give thanks. To take a moment and tell this brain, this heart — thanks for getting me here. For making the adjustments when life knocks us around.

I sit at the morning table. My cup is full.

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Hotel breakfast.

I call it hotel breakfast. It can be as easy as putting out the extra homemade jam. Changing the artwork on the counter. But it feels special to me. Like that feeling when you walk from your hotel room down through the lobby, following the scent of coffee, and then seeing the magnificent spread on the table. I suppose maybe it’s all about the luxury of choice. And if I can give that to myself, to us, with just an extra jar of jam, why wouldn’t I do that every day in our own home? Why wouldn’t I give us the chance to feel a little extra special? The chance to begin the day choosing joy. 

I don’t know if my grandma visited many luxury hotels. But somehow she knew. I read in her diary about her first kiss behind the Alexandria Hotel. I assumed at the time it was grandpa, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it was here, too, that she had her first hotel breakfast. I’d like to think so. Something sweet on a white tablecloth. Tasting of choice and possibility. A kind of sweetness that when kissed on lips it stays with you. Lingers in the farm house so quickly filled with children and grandchildren. Lingers and rests in the cupboard to the right of the sink. On the bottom shelf. The variety pack of Kellogg’s Cereal. A variety pack that certainly was too expensive, but something she could not afford to pass up. Something she had to pass on to her grandchildren. Giving them the sweet choice of possibility. Making them feel so special. With each sugary spoonful, created just for them. She did this for us. 

The sun comes up. I have a choice to make. So I put out the extra jam. I begin the day knowing that this day is special. That I am. That we are. What could be sweeter than this!!!!?

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A taste of the divine.


I begin to miss it immediately. That last bite of toast. A spoon licked clean of homemade jam. And the cup’s final drop of coffee — it’s strongest sip of the morning.  As Virginia Woolf would say — “a sip of the divine specific.” 

Maybe it’s the newness of it all. The beginning. The conversation so fresh and coherent, laced with headlines and caffeine.  Lingering in the sugared possibilities, I am not doing. Not ahead, nor behind, I just am. I know that soon I will be studying, typing, splashing, moving, creating, but at this moment, while the beans have magically moved from brew to waft,  I float with them, over tabled worries and responsibilities. Light as I will be.

I am, by nature, a day-filler. I’m a doer. A “let’s get things done” person. And I love it. To create is joy. Whether it is canvas or confiture (jam), I have a real need to make it. A pace that speeds me to the blur of day’s end. A pace that outruns (sometimes), that overcomes (sometimes), but always forces me to stop. And just before I fall to sleep, brushing away the should-haves and could-haves, weeding through the less-than-“devine,” I smile, I breathe, comforted by the calming thought — it’s almost time for breakfast.

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Saying grace.

I never had an alarm clock growing up. Just the thought of it sounds, well, alarming. My mom did though. It was just one of the many things she took on, so I wouldn’t have to. She absorbed the morning jolt, tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed and washed. If I wasn’t roused by the gentle clinking of her makeup, she would come into my bedroom, and start my day with whispered hand on shoulder. Toast popped up in the kitchen. Smiles set the day’s intention. Maybe we didn’t fold hands in prayer, but you’d be wrong to say she didn’t start the day saying grace. 

Of course there was a world of concern around her, around us, but if she woke with worry, it never showed in her hands. I guess she learned that from her mother. I pray I’ve done the same. 

I begin each day now, in another time, another country. But there’s coffee on the table. And kindness in the air. I give thanks, and whisper with the gentle clink of the keyboard — Good morning.

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Coffee on the table.

It has been a month since we had our coffee. We’ve had lots of coffee — lattes, iced and hot, dark roasts with cream, coffees from drip makers, espresso machines, pods — lots of coffee, but not ours. This morning I brewed the coffee in our Italian pot. It is simple. Strong. Fills the kitchen with the scent of morning. Fills our spirit with the taste of home. 

I painted this coffee pot years ago because it was a symbol to me of “falling in love with your own life.” It is still just that. And to start each day with that reminder is priceless, familiar, comforting — I guess that’s home.

But it takes an effort though. You have to search. Try different things. Take different paths. Stumble. Fall. Get up again, all in order to find this place. And then maintain it. I suppose the best way is just through gratitude. So I give thanks for this morning pot of coffee. I give thanks for this love. This life. This home. 

There’s coffee on the table, and kindness in the air. We begin. Good morning!

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Taste this life!

I have eaten a lot of jelly in my life. At hotels. Restaurants. Even my own house. But eating jelly that I have made, from fruit that I have picked, from a tree in our garden, and put on bread (that I have also made) – well, now this is new. New and exciting! I can honestly say that I think about it before I go to sleep, as if it were Christmas Eve!


Maybe it’s the taste. The freshness. The effort made. The sharing with someone you love. Or maybe it’s figuring out that this is probably “IT” – finding the joy in the small things. Celebrating the little things. Figuring out that there are 364 other “eves” to Christmas – that can all be just as exciting!!


I love that the cover of the jar matches the jelly that colors the toast that brightens the breakfast that fills my soul and begins my day! That’s a good morning! Perhaps even a holiday! The little things — they that make living such a big deal!!!!!!!

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