Breakfast

I’m not a morning person. I’m not great at late nights either. I guess I’m a middle-of-the-day kind. As daylight hits my face, I slowly surface to awareness, quietly, peacefully. Propped up on pillows with a good novel for and hour or so is my preferred first activity of the day.

Hubby, on the other hand, lives for breakfast. He leaps from his bed and has coffee on the go before I’ve even opened my eyes. He plans his first meal of the day the night before. His ritual involves certain foods on certain days. The highlight of his week is French Toast Saturday.

 

He goes out for breakfast.

 

During the Monday to Friday grind, he’s coming back from the local greasy spoon as I am just showing my face. On weekends, he inveigles upon me to join him in what he considers the most civilized cultural foray into the day—breakfast at Rosie’s. Today I relented and went along.

 

Oh my gosh! The owners, servers and several patrons beamed wide grins and hollered greetings as we came through the door. Groan. Already I heard my pillows, duvet and book calling me back.

One egg, no bread, no potatoes, no meat. Herbal tea—a big pot. No. Nothing else, thank you. No. Really.

 

Chatter, clatter, crash. Noise of a busy, early morning diner is not my thing. I look around. Every combination of breakfast companions is represented:

A father with small daughter was doing the French toast, slurping syrup and dunking crusts in the milk.

Gag!

 

Yoga buddies, mats rolled up and nesting under their table, their pink, body hugging outfits revealing they do not have to hold back on the Eggs Benny. Loaded fork poised, knife gesturing menacingly, the two-fisted eater was intensely engaged in conversation.

Say what? I’m still asleep.

Beside us, an older couple is starting the day with their married children. The smart phone is being passed around their table displaying the latest photos.

Show and tell. I need my glasses.

 

A senior lady breaking her fast alone, reclined in her booth, her arm stretched out along the back of the bench. She cleaned her teeth with her tongue and engaged another single lady nearby, discussing the weather.

I’ll water the flowers when I get home. Please hurry with the tea. Please.

By the window, a young family. The only one awake at that table was the two year old in the booster seat. He was alive and on fire. Dad had that vacant look of insomnia and inertia with which I could totally relate.

Slow down—we have all day.

 

So, who among you is a morning person? Do you do breakfast or brunch? They charge extra for brunch, don’t ya know?