I’m sure the nice lady meant well. But as I drooped over my coffee, swollen-eyed and garbled of thought, she exhibited all the tenacity of an overzealous police detective hellbent on punishing me for the crime of waking up.
“How about some scrambled eggs with toast? I have a nice pomegranate jam.”
“No thank you,” I croaked. “I just want to drink my cof–”
“Pancakes? I could whip you up some pancakes with blueberries.”
“No thanks, I just …”
“Ham and cheese omelet?”
“No, I …”
“Oatmeal? English muffin? Cream cheese bagel? Poached egg on toast? Bacon and cheese quiche? Grits?”
“Please, ma’am. I only want to …”
Then the nice lady rushed across the kitchen, grabbed a fist full of my robe and hauled me out of my chair.
“Listen, scumbag! You’re going to eat a waffle with a side of sausage or I’m going to scramble YOUR eggs. Got it?”
She punched me twice in the chops, stuffed a bib in my mouth and flung me into a corner to await my sentence of waffles and links.
OK, she didn’t really do that. But I’m pretty sure she wanted to.
I don’t eat breakfast, and this offends some people. It’s THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY, after all. Eschew it in some households and you might as well confess to being a communist, puppy-kicking weirdo from the dark side of the moon.
“You HAVE to eat breakfast,” they will insist, flaying you with a slice of Canadian bacon as you try to run for the door. “Or you won’t have the energy to get through the day.”
I get it, I really do. After a long night’s sleep, your blood sugar is low, your body cries out for refueling and blah blah carbs blah blah protein and blah blah creamed eggs on toast.
I just threw up a little.
The fact is, when I wake up in the morning (1 p.m. in the morning to be precise) I’m not the least bit hungry. What I am is tired, fuzzy-headed and bitter about the fact that I have to be upright and away from the amniotic warmth of the bed. I’m cranky. I don’t want to talk and I definitely don’t want to stuff things into my mouth and then have to chew them.
“How about some corned beef hash?” a breakfast pusher will offer in the bright Hell chime that is the song of the morning person. “Or a nice croissant?”
A breakfast enthusiast simply cannot comprehend that there are people in the world who don’t want to eat the moment they roll out of bed. To the bacon-munching breakfast zealot, it’s just a matter of finding the right food combination to effectively convert the unholy non-eater.
“Crepes with strawberries and cream? Huevos Rancheros? Home fries? Boiled eggs and ham? *Lox?”
And they will keep at it all morning if they have to, forever probing for the ingredients to provoke a Pavlovian response in the lost soul that is the non-hungry.
“Breakfast taco? Cereal? Wheat germ? Eggs Neptune? Johnnycake? Monkey bread?”
I could weep. All I want to do is sit here drinking coffee, scanning the news headlines and savoring the silence. Is that so wrong?
Quit your worrying, I say. I don’t eat first thing in the day, but eventually I’ll work myself up to a handful of peanuts and some water. By the time most people are moving on to lunch, I’m back to coffee and regretting nothing. I generally don’t eat much of anything until late in the evening, and even then it’s mostly a chore. I just want to get it done and move on with my life.
And of course, dinner brings its own set of challenges. You plow through whatever is on your plate and that should be enough, should it not?
“What would you like for dessert,” begins the militant post-meal rant. “Apple crisp? Gingerbread? Butterscotch pudding? Cinnamon rolls? Kentucky jam cake? How about a nice strawberry shortcake or buttermilk pie? Hey, why are you running away? You have to have dessert! Don’t make me beat you with this Bundt cake because God help me I will!”
It was a savage beating, but I’m sure she meant well.
* I just looked up lox. Dear God, it’s salmon! For breakfast!
Mark LaFlamme
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