There’s something almost sacred about the last meal of the weekend. It’s more than just food—it’s a send-off, a soft landing before the chaos of Monday begins. In my house, where teenagers roam like a pack of hungry wolves, I cooked like I was feeding an army. And honestly? I kind of was.
The table groaned under the weight of flaky, buttery biscuits, smothered in rich, peppery gravy. Hashbrowns sizzled to golden perfection, and the bacon—oh, the bacon—crisped just right. This wasn’t just breakfast. It was a ritual. A moment to gather, to savor, to say goodbye to the weekend with full bellies and full hearts.
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