Stuck on the Subway

Had a bit of a failure to launch there, but we’re back up. If you must know, I was working on another project which I will announce in due time. Thanks for bearing with me.

Continuing, as it happens, with the themes of food, in particular breakfast food, I present to you the titular statement. If my sparse yet persistent knowledge of history is to be trusted, ‘breakfast’ foods, as we have come to know them, are steeped in tradition.

Not sentimental or cultural tradition, but pragmatic. As it were, if you were a serf or a peasant, you merely needed to visit the chicken coop in the morning and fry up a portion of your last-slaughtered hog and voila: breakfast. And remember to render the proper greeting to me, your lord, as you go (just let me have this one).

In a cursory search of my memory I don’t believe I’ve ever had fresh eggs and sausage/bacon in the sense that a medieval serf might. I eat my eggs the same way you do: overcooked on a frying pan alongside some disappointing store-bought sausage, or at an overpriced brunch coupled with with mimosas to my heart’s content, all within that 90-minute window.

Now, as a proud bachelor I do insist on rendering suitable meals for myself, in balance of course with efficiency of time (take a stab at which wins, usually).

But why does breakfast food have to be food only suitable for breakfast? If I want, say, two slices of leftover Domino’s when I roll out of bed in the morning, why is this any different than eating anything else? A quick glance at the ingredients say this is basically a rather healthy and colorful omelet, simply in a different form. Nothing has fundamentally changed. It’s a physical change, not a chemical one.

Yet, my bachelorhood is pointed out and sneered at should one of the self-righteous coworkers at the office learn of my non-traditional cuisine. I say instead, free your mind and your routine, and have the leftover pizza. Break the fast, and likewise, the stigma that only a proper, moral English breakfast will do.

However, if you’re shoveling down a row of Oreos washed down with a Mountain Dew Code Red…you’re on your own.