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.

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)

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.

(John Gunther)