An early morning walk at the river, about the time the homeless were brewing their coffee on the camp fire, and I found myself smiling at the memory of breakfast cooked on an open fire at the zoo. My parents occasionally would pack a box on Saturday morning with a cast iron skillet, a loaf of bread, some bacon, eggs and even though I don't remember, I'm guessing real plates--I don't remember us using paper plates--and we'd drive across town to the zoo, which had acres of park connected. As a child, it seemed like we drove a great distance for our countryside cookout. Picnic tables, camp fire stations, big rocks to walk on top of, it was like a mini-vacation on a Saturday morning. I wonder now what prompted them to think of that. It was never a full day event. We just cooked breakfast, played a little and went home. No Saturday morning doughnut shops for us -- of course, at that time the doughnuts were sold door-to-door in little white paper sacks, 6 glazed for 50 cents.
Sometimes I miss the June Cleaver days.
