Sun Bread

for you and I

Dec 28, 2024

Welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

This week you’ll find a downloadable gift for you to enjoy with little one/s. A small token of my appreciation for your being here.

SUN BREAD

by Elisa Kleven

MOTHERHOOD

by Sun Bread

On Christmas Eve, “breakfast” in my house starts at 2:23am when Scott and I wake up to the elements thrashing against our house.

“That’s some storm,” he’s half asleep, but I can tell he’s thrilled like me to be right where we are, tucked in the linen sheets we got as a wedding gift 5 years ago.

“Wait. Ugh. I’m dizzy,” I sputter.

The only thing I have consumed since the super-death flu whirled through us this week (aside from saltines and the occasional bite of matzo-ball or cookie) is Schweppes ginger ale with ice.

I reach for the one at my bedside. This particular cup is perfectly flat and watered down, and I love the sound of the ice cubes against the thick glass of my favorite mason jar as I sip it.

Did I fall back to sleep? It's 4:48 am, and I hear our 10-month-old Lisette's unmistakable moan for milk.

With a cardigan over my PJ’s, I fall down the hall toward the nursery. Our girls share a space. May they never know profound loneliness.

The baby throws back her canopy (her favorite peek-a-boo game). If she had mastered English, she would have said, "Hi!" but it's a noise in a private language to her and I.

Gathering her, I study. She looks better than last night. More color in her cheeks. Her forehead is cool on the back of my neck. At least her 104.5 fever is gone. She smears phlegm on my sweater.

The babe wants milk, but she's covered in bubbles and chunks of snot and mucus. Poor thing. She doesn't know how to cough, so it comes out in heaps and spurts.

I wipe her with a muslin cloth and cradle her back into my bed to drink.

She takes long, deep, belabored gulps from my right breast (her favorite). She sounds like an old French Bull Dog and smells like wet coastal forest. Her father appears from the darkness with a “snot sucker,” nose bulb thing-a-ma-jig.

Like a pro, he clears her nostrils without interrupting her breakfast. I’m proud of him.

He’s still so ill. Heavy wheezing cough. Nausea. Dizzy-ness. Wait. That’s me. I don’t feel so hot. Ugh.

The baby pulls off my breast and flings her body from mine.

Whoa.

I try and gather her back to me; we haven't finished drinking. She resists. She's strong. She crawls back and forth on the bed. She doesn't want to be touched. I know what this means.

Oh, G-d. Her burp echos the wind outside, and I move just in time to catch her raining vomit in my hands.

“Good work,” my husband says.

“Please. Don’t.”

I fly out of bed to the bathroom and scrub my hands and arms. Am I going to be sick? Can’t tell. Reflex, I pop an anti-nausea medication (Life Savor!!!) on my tongue and the best stuff for flu on planet earth (stock up!!!) after that.

This isn’t the worst moment of this flu — by far. The worst was a few nights ago when both the children — let’s not, I’m writing to you about meals, right?

When I crawl into bed, I am too ill to notice Scott whisking the baby back to the nursery. I fall asleep to the sound of our cat, nuzzling deep enough to sleep again.

9:05 am I open my eyes as the 2.5-year-old Lilyan holds my neck with her cool hand and whispers,

"You make me happier than a pink sky."

Not sure if I hear her right or if I am dreaming, I repeat it. I heard right.

“That’s very loving of you,” Scott says.

" A beautiful poem," I tell her, rolling over into consciousness.

Still nauseous and dizzy. "I need to eat," I mumble.

I suggest we all go downstairs for breakfast, knowing none of us can stomach it.

The baby appears in my arms again, and our little family makes our way to the kitchen, felt slippers, cotton robes, and hope in tow.

Scott heads to the stove. Eggs for the kids? Let's try. We'll make the babies first so they can cool down. Scott wants to know what I'd like, but I can't remember why I thought food was a good idea. Nothing.

Lilyan asks after a bagel and cream cheese with her eggs. I smile. It's warming to hear her asking for food again, although dairy is terrible for congestion. I bite my tongue. Maybe she'll eat it. Eating anything at this point is a good idea.

Dizzy, I flop on the couch. Lisette pulls my pajama pant. I close my eyes.

The cat cries to go outside. I let her out. The cold, wet, foggy air pats my cheeks. What a treat. I love living here. Forest to the East. Water to the West.

I drop Lisette into her high chair as Lilyan’s breakfast hits the table. The baby looks confused. Where’s mine? Lilyan shuffles to her chair.

Lilyan’s breakfast: scrambled eggs and half a bagel with cream cheese

Lisette’s breakfast: scrambled eggs

Scott and I debate the temperature of the baby’s scrambled eggs. “It’s nice to have warm food for her,” he insists, sipping tea.

“Maybe, I can have tea?”

I’m asking my tummy, but Scott’s already off to the kettle.

After a few mouse bites, Lilyan pushes her bagel away.

“I want something else,” she meows.

She wants comfort, so her face gets cuter—a kitten. I love the white mustache of cream cheese on her lip. She’s squirming in her chair to get closer to me. Maybe I can help her figure out why the bagel and cream cheese isn't appealing.

I know there's nothing I can do for her. A bagel of cream cheese doesn't sound good to me, either, and it always does. The flu kills joys such as this. But viruses clean the body so we can continue to grow. The flu is crucial to human development.

“I want something else, Papa,” she yowls.

“Chef’s taking a break,” Scott replies as he drops off my tea and his energy disappears from the kitchen. He’s gone to the bathroom. He’s hurting.

We’re all starving but can’t stomach food. Just one sip of tea was too much for his system.

Lisette Patty-cakes her breakfast. I can hear her trying to chew despite globs of mucus blocking her chest and nose. Now, she’s dipping her whole face into the plate of scrambled eggs. I wonder what she’s thinking.

Lilyan has moved on from wanting something else to piling her eggs on her bagel —

a castle.

“I want a (indistinct) on here, k?” She’s talking to her tummy. Her tone is soft, and her pitch is high, so I know she’s deep in imaginative play. I get it. Real life is uncomfortable right now. I’m proud of her.

I love the hum of her mumbling. Playing with her food hasn’t descended into chaos yet, which is good.

Lisette studies her sister and continues experimenting with ways around her congestion.

I consider my tea.

Lilyan drags her bagel and cream cheese across the table. Lisette yawns. Myo cries to come back in from the rain. These are usually signs breakfast is over, but no one ate.

Lilyan wiggles out of her chair toward her play kitchen. It’s set up next to our dining room table so she can cook any number of delights for her family.

Lisette moans. I collect her to my chest. She slurps down 4oz or so of milk from my left breast. It's not her favorite, but it's better than nothing.

Scott’s energy is nearby again. He’s emptying a diaper pale.

Lilyan hands her father a wooden popsicle, “One for you and one for I.” Her syntax and language stuns.

One for you and one for I.

Lisette pushes against my body with her feet, aka she finished drinking. I hold her up to touch her temperature. I’m concerned her fever could return. She’s okay. I put her down to paw some string.

The omelette bagel and cream cheese castle Lilyan created suddenly looks delicious.

I eat it on my way to throw her plate in the sink. If I move fast enough while chewing, it won’t make me sick. Yum. It’s delicious and fatty and salty and perfect. Chef Lilyan. A genius.

Ugh. It’s way too much for me right now. The first bite of complex food I’ve had in days, and my tea is too cold to wash it away.

Filling my favorite mug with more boiling water, I added a heaping spoonful of local honey that we steeped in sage and ginger months ago.

We made garlic honey, too, but it’s so off-putting I can’t even stand the thought of it. In fact, now is the time to throw it out. I drag the viscous muck from the jar and fling it in the trash can. Sorry bees.

I sip my tea. I let Myo inside. Her fur is soaked — poor babe.

Lisette yawns. Rubs her eyes. Our cub is ready for a rest.

“I want to watch Sesame,” Lilyan yowls.

Scott and I exchange a look.

“How about we bake something instead?” her dad offers.

“Yes,” she agrees, this is a good plan. I’m proud of him.

But what? Nothing sounds worse than muffins, cookies, or pie. The room spins.

We need something light. Something simple. Saltines but warm. Saltines with substance. Something to take our minds off the darkness. We need sunshine. A bit of sweet for hope. We need…

I know exactly what we need —

SUN BREAD

by Sun Bread

There’s nothing better than baking with little kids. It’s a messy, silly, and fruitless process that can also be incredibly satisfying. While most toddlers will surprise you with their ability to crack an egg, mix, and pour accurately, usually, they can’t read.

So my gift to you this holiday season is a recipe toddlers and young folks can “read!”

How Egyptian!

I have included jpgs of the adult version of the recipe, the visual recipe, and a downloadable PDF for you to print so you can enjoy making sun bread with your littlest ones.

The idea here is for the kids to feel empowered to tell you what to do next!

This sun bread is perfect for a slow morning when your tummy needs a hug.