I stopped by the coop on my way back to the house and scooped up all the eggs my coat pockets could hold, as I lacked a basket. They are a bouquet of pink, brown, white and green on the outside but each boasts a blast of color in a yolk reminiscent of sunflowers.

As soon as my feet hit the stoop, the aroma of that beautiful black gold in the pot indoors has me picking up my step, anxious for the first sip as I unload my treasures from the coop. I fire up the stove and gas hisses from the burner, sounding like the fuel igniter on a hot air balloon heating up. The smell of fresh buttermilk that was made last night and vanilla wafts through my workspace as I dump it in the bowl. I'm hungry already and in my impatience, I was a bit overzealous in my stirring. Now, a fine, white powdery ghost of flour blankets the counter and my apron.

I can tell the iron is ready as I gingerly pour batter over all the nooks and crannies. The smooth, glossy surface of this 1908 Griswold iron is the original "nonstick." Steam coils out of the seams while I eye it in anticipation of turning it over. You need a strong wrist as it is heavy, unlike modern pans. My iron is a simple but clever contraption and far superior to the modern electric devices. It is a two-handed job. One lifts the base, and the other swivels the ball joint to the other side.

It smells amazing now and I can tell it is done. The first waffle is a glorious golden, crispy cake. I made butter from whipping cream last night and it doesn't disappoint. The sweet, creamy lather melts across the waffle and slides into the pockets, leaving buttery pools in its wake. I add honey to the table that came from the hives in my back pasture. It is amazing. Amber crystals cling to the inside of the bottle, as I haven't used this variety in a while. Fleshy jars of pear and apple pie jams that I canned last summer are enticing waffle condiments as well.

As I dress the waffles that begin to stack up, I crack eggs into the searing cast iron pan. The initial splash onto the hot iron sounds like a downpour on the tin roof of my hay barn and the egg white blisters from the heat. Bacon from my local butcher sizzles in the next pan over, permeating everything in the house with a smell that is nearly inebriating.

With strong cowboy coffee running through my veins, I call the kids to breakfast and get ready to start the day. WHAT’S ON YOUR PLATE?