The Seventh Day by Alan Bunker 

Sunday mornings were special for the Bunker family. Dressed in our best, we would ride in the cigarette smoke-filled station wagon to Mass. My father was the faithful and punctual parishioner -- never missing a Sunday Mass and getting us there likely before the priest rolled out of bed. After blessing ourselves with a dab of Holy Water, we seven would file into the unofficially designated Bunker pew with my father proudly ensconced at the end.  

An hour later, with the recessional hymn still in our ears, we waded with the exiting faithful into the parking lot and reloaded our 'wagon.' Departing from the jammed lot tested my dad's grace-filled benefits of Mass as he carefully nosed us between the cars of fellow parishioners, likely cussing a prayerful word or two under his breath. 

Shortly after arriving at home, the Sunday ritual continued with the preparation of a hearty breakfast. (No sugary box cereal today!) My father began by cutting a pound of bacon into bite-sized pieces. Tossing them into the skillet, he would stir them occasionally as they fried atop the gas stove, not allowing them to get too crisp. When done to his satisfaction -- some of them sort of like undercooked fish -- the pieces were ceremoniously placed in a paper towel-lined bowl. The skillet's quarter-inch-deep liquid of fat was reserved for frying the entree of eggs -- sunny side up --and basted so that the yokes resembled cataract eyes. My mother preferred her eggs scrambled in their own pan sans the bacon-fat immersion. Of course, she cooked them herself. 

Toasted white bread, covered with a generous spread of real butter, was served to sop up the runny yokes. My mom enjoyed her toast, too, but garnished with grape jelly. Often she would dab a bit of jelly to her egg dish, giving it a grayish hue. A strong cup of coffee, sometimes tempered with real cream and sugar, provided a satisfying accompaniment. With the bacon, eggs, toast (and juice and milk, of course) upon the table and we seated, my father would lead us in grace (didn't we already pray enough at Mass?). The table conversation was light with little teasing among the kids. 

Soon the breakfast ended and was blessed by my father with a satisfying after-meal cigarette. Having finished first, the kids left the table. My parents remained to casually talk until my mom felt compelled to clear the dishes, plan the evening's dinner and thus continue the Sunday practice. My dad assisted in the clean-up. Watching him carefully pour the remaining bacon drippings from the skillet into an open-mouthed jar, one would have thought that he was handling liquid gold. The jar was lovingly placed in the refrigerator where the renderings would harden and await their use to fry an egg or a sliced potato during the ensuing weeks. 

The aroma of cooked bacon and eggs lingered in the house until it was supplanted by the preparation of the evening meal -- the symbolic closing of the seventh day.