The Virginian opens at the bluest hour of morning. It’s a greasy spoon diner in Jackson that ticks all the breakfast boxes. Years ago, in my newspaper days, my journalist friend Evan and I would meet a few early-rising others every Wednesday morning for our version of a breakfast club. We’d show up at 6:30 am, drink too much coffee, and read the paper we published overnight.

The Virg’s dirty secret is the cinnamon roll. Its dimensions are unknown because it gets bigger every time you order one. A hot coil of pastry is the vehicle for two cups of icing. Well-intentioned parents may order one per kid. Jaws drop, and eyes split open wider than the dinner plate it’s served on when those gooey behemoths hit the table. We’d order one between the six of us and still crash from the sugar high. After a sugar-fueled breakfast, Evan and I would often pass back out for a couple of hours before work. The Breakfast Club mornings were good ones, but like all good things, they came to an end. Evan would eventually leave Jackson for a new job, routines changed, and The Breakfast Club sizzled out.

I’m not a sweet breakfast guy. But that wasn’t always the case. From ages 5 to 15, my siblings and I started our days with Pop-Tarts, Eggos, and a rotating selection of cereal classics: Cap’n Crunch, Frosted Flakes, Cookie Crisp, the list goes on. Preparing biscuits and gravy, or an omelet, was off the table for one parent who’s trying to wrangle three difficult children for school at 6:30 am. I don’t blame Mom one bit for our decadent mornings. Watching Saved By The Bell reruns with my brother over a hot, buttery Pop-Tart was, and is still to me, so so sweet.

The kingpin of sugar in the family was our grandpa, Jim. A man of strange balance. He woke up early every morning for a strict stretching regimen. He’d devour the morning paper with prunes and coffee. He’d walk 18-holes of golf while puffing thick, sweet cigars. He claimed he just chewed on them. Jim tossed us around and played any game we came up with when he babysat me and my brother, Clay. He was a disciplined man and extolled to us the importance of being active.

Jim also pumped us with delicacies unknown. Our mom came to pick us up one afternoon and was mortified to find Clay, who couldn’t have been even four years old, nursing a Mountain Dew. In earnest, Jim said to her, “I figured he could have a pop.” When we went fishing together, the cooler was stocked with grape Fanta and Cosmic Brownies. Tucked up high on the pantry shelf was our all-time favorite from Little Debbie: The Honey Bun. I’d watch the glaze shimmer as it twirled in the microwave. Long days down by the creek or chasing Jim on the golf course always earned us a sweet little treat.

My grandmother Lucy, may God rest her soul, was no cook. On the mornings when Clay and I were under the grandparents’ laissez-faire supervision, Jim spearheaded breakfast. It was always pancakes. Two cups of mix, 1 cup of water, and an egg, mix it around. Making batter had just enough moving parts to keep us entertained without losing focus. Clay wielded his whisk after I’d mixed our solids and liquids. The yolk shone like a sunrise in the bowl before being beaten into a runny, sometimes clumpy mix. Oh, and then the real fun began. We’d stand on barstools in our tighty whities to pour the batter and gain leverage on the flip. It’s a technique I use to this day that my roommates don’t appreciate, but I don’t want to get batter on my clothes. Once the edges firmed up and bubbles rose through the batter, we knew it was time to shimmy the spatula around the circumference of the hot cake. A quick tuck and twist sent our newly minted pancake onto its back to finish. While we waited for it to turn golden brown, we’d raid the pantry for toppings of a bygone era. A bottle of Aunt Jemima and a tub of Land O’ Lakes. That tall stack of cakes was going to drown.

The kitchen was a demilitarized zone for Clay and me. We were not model brothers when we were growing up. There were many years of screaming, violence, and emotional torment that neither our parents nor God could resolve between us. The table was the one place we’d call a ceasefire. Our parents always sat us down for dinner as a family. It is a ritual I hold deep in my heart, still. Meals were always agreed upon, but a new vegetable would always sneak its way into the lineup. When it was time to try something new, we weren’t allowed to leave the table until we took a bite. Our parents committed the inexcusable war crime of making us try green beans. I knew the only way out was through, so I chewed. I was excused. Clay, on the other hand, was much more stubborn. Brought to tears by the ultimatum of try or die, he’d always choose to die. I hated this boy, but something about leaving him in the trenches felt wrong. I never left the table. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and we both fucking hated green beans.

I do not remember when the violence stopped. I do not remember if a switch was flipped, or if it simmered down over the years. Clay and I would come to love each other. I have only ever wanted to be two other men. It was Clay or Jim. My brother is everything I am not. He’s tall and athletic. He can play guitar and convince you to sell your car for gas money. Deeply empathetic and the funniest fucking person I know, and that includes me. I can remember the peace of cooking breakfast with Clay and Jim and the foods that brought him and me closer together. Jim was never around for the really bad years. Dementia took over Jim’s mind so quickly. I guess one day, unbeknownst to the three of us, we cooked our last pancakes together. Mine and Clay’s last memories of Jim were in neglectful nursing homes, peering into glassy eyes that had nothing behind them. No recipes or names. Thankfully, none of the fighting. Whatever was floating around in there, I hope it was two kids in their underwear covered in Krusteaz.

The honey of my memories has hardened in its cold jar. Jim has long since passed, and my best friend lives 1,400 miles away. I’m crystallized by the winters and slip into these bouts of anger. That jar of honey needs only some heat. The warmth of attention. By thinking of them both, I become sweet again.

I conjure the bittersweet memories of Jim and Clay at the Virginian. In some great alignment of the stars, our dearest Evan has moved back to Jackson, and we revive The Breakfast Club. Years have passed, but The Virg has remained the same. Confectioners snow dusts the stairs of the restaurant, and they haven’t turned on the open sign just yet. Our group files in one by one, and we shuffle our way to a back corner booth. Oil lamps and enamelware decorate the diner, and old leather saddles straddle the rafters. Just as we remember it. I read everyone’s horoscopes from the paper as Evan recounts what’s changed since he’s been gone. Not much, and also everything. We hand our mugs to the roving coffee filler to be topped off. Freshened up. Thawed out.

What’s everyone getting? I don’t know. I’m not really a sweet breakfast guy. We do not order the cinnamon roll. Everyone’s plate is some combination of eggs, meat, or toast. Over easy, grilled, sourdough. I got the steak and eggs over medium. With a pancake.