This (late) morning, as I poured myself three different types of cereal in my preferred ratio, I thought to all my funny breakfast habits of the past--to my refusal to eat anything but rice pudding in early elementary school, to my shift to frosted mini-wheats with the milk in a separate mug in the fifth grade. (This was a particularly OCD breakfast phase concentrated on preserving the integrity of the cereal's crunchiness and the distinctness of its parts: I would individually place each mini-wheat, frosted-side-up, onto a large soup spoon and then dunk that spoon into my milk-filled mug. This way I didn't run into the problem of unnaturally sweet non-fat milk and bland, soggy mini-wheats. genius.) Then I hit middle-school and became even more of a persnickity breakfast eater in the sense that I couldn't be bothered by it. I would wake up fifteen minutes before leaving to go to school and my cussing, hates-to-be-late, father would worry over feeding me. This usually meant a luke-warm sampling of his interpretation of scrambled eggs on a paper plate in the car. Or, on a good day, sugar toast. Gross.
At a certain point in High School, I discovered the pleasures of a social weekend brunch. Eggs and bacon and bagels and cheese and ham and butter, syrup, waffles... I have few fonder memories than of the times spent with my best girl-friends over hot cocoa and swedish pancakes at the Original Pancake House in Encinitas. In Virginia I added biscuits, potato flour donuts and hash to that list of cardiac arresters and enjoyed them in the ambiance of smoky diners insulated by the rustling of fall leaves and mountain winds.
I can thank Italy for adding coffee to my morning ritual: Thank you, Italy; and Virginia for Escalara Roasters: Thank you, Virginia.
In conclusion, I look forward to my next Breakfast obsession.
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