Breakfast

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.

Sure I eat what I advertise. Sure I eat Wheaties for breakfast. A good bowl of Wheaties with bourbon can't be beat.

(Dizzy Dean)

To eat well in England, you should have a breakfast three times a day.

(William Somerset Maugham)

I like British breakfast. I am looking forward to my next trip to England, since it is never the same when I try to make some at home.

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.

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.«

Fast or slow, it's all the same to me. Broken is broken.

How do you live a long life? »Take a two-mile walk every morning before breakfast.«

(Harry S. Truman)

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.

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!