Breakfast

I must admit that breakfast is perhaps my favourite meal of the day. The best breakfast is that consumed late at night before retiring. I fondly remember one of champagne accompanied by a bowl of freshly picked boor-geresy fruit. It was a picnic near the giant fallen statues of Erewhon.

George the Mailman replied, »Your onion?«

»Yes, the one I keep in my pocket as I travel down this dusty Lost Highway.«

»What a weirdo you are, Frank.«

One of the greatest delights when travelling through imaginary countries is the moment of discovery when biting into an unknown fruit. I will never forget the puckering in my mouth and the great shiver that ran down my spine when one morning at breakfast I popped a small boor-geresy into my mouth. Oh, to return to Erewhon!

The thing about breakfast is that my stomach is rarely strong enough, upon having just woken up, to actually eat a monstrous breakful of pancakes and eggs and sausages and cereals and canteloupe slices. Brunch works very nicely, but must be prepared by someone else to really work properly. My solution is to eat a hearty breakfast immediately before going to bed, usually at around 1 AM.

It is beyond the imagination of the menu-maker that there are people in the world who breakfast on a single egg.

(Melvin Maddocks)

Expect problems and eat them for breakfast.

(Alfred A. Montapert)

Most breakfast foods seem to be brown or yellow or white or orange.

Jams come in lots of different colours, though. I guess that is the only way to get blue or purple into your morning meal.

It was George the Mailman's last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to
the same neighborhood.
When he arrived at the first house on his route he was greeted by the whole family there, who roundly and
soundly congratulated him and sent him on his way with a tidy gift envelope. At the second house they presented
him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures.
At the fourth house he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful woman in a revealing negligee. She took him
by the hand, gently led him through the door (which she closed behind him), and led him up the stairs to the
bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced.
When he had had enough they went downstairs, where she fixed him a giant breakfast eggs, potatoes, ham,
sausage, blueberry waffles, and fresh squeezed orange juice.
When he was truly satisfied she poured him a cup of steaming coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill
sticking out from under the cup's bottom edge.
»All this was just too wonderful for words,« he said, »but what's the dollar for?«
»Well,« she said, "last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do
something special for you. I asked him what to give you. He said: »Fuck him. Give him a dollar.«
The breakfast was my idea..."

I still remember breakfasts at the lake. My mother so enjoyed cleaning fish (I'm not kidding) that she sent us out to the lake at sunrise to catch perch and bluegills no bigger than our hands to fry up with scrambled eggs.

She hated catching fish. She loved cleaning them. Whatta mom. Huck Finn would have loved her.