I have always hated breakfast.
As a child I thought nothing was worse than mushy pancakes, that French toast was the most abominable creation known to man, and that eggs were watery gooey clumps of yellow matter my mom threw on my plate as punishment. The one time I attempted to help her cook them, I scorched my hand (and I still have the scar).
Gradually, I came out of my shell, but for the most part I followed the model set forth by my dad: breakfast was a time for Entenmann’s chocolate donuts or lemon coconut cake, washed down with sugary sweet Ruby Red or overly pampered coffee.
I never fell into a good breakfast pattern. I am, by nature, a late sleeper, so in college I’d schedule all late classes and wake up in time for lunch. For law school, I’d usually wing my morning class on an empty stomach.
Interestingly, the most breakfasty thing I eat during the day is usually consumed at lunch: a bagel and cream cheese. Otherwise, my mornings involve loud gurgling noises at school or something hastily scarfed down pre-identification.
[To quickly address a reader’s query: my favorite cereals, off the top of my head, include: Honeycomb, Life, Kix, and if I’m feeling really naughty Applejacks or Lucky Charms. In essence: candy.]
I have evolved, though, to the point where I do enjoy breakfast out at restaurants. I really like waffles and well-prepared omelletes; I’m partial to a berry-flecked French toast, and occassionally I’ll risk a mushy pancake. But when it comes to cooking breakfast at home, the only scrambling I do is scrambling through the pantry last-minute for a granola bar or a Pop Tart.
For tonight’s song, I blues it up a bit with a riff from “Five Guys Named Moe” bemoaning my inability to find substantive food in the morning. Enjoy!