Why I Pour a Lot of Syrup On My Pancakes

The sun has been up for a few hours, but it’s not late. People are out and about, but nobody’s meeting for lunch just yet. There’s no alarm, no getting ready hurriedly in the dark, no apple and coffee while dashing to the bus stop. You have time to heat Passion tea, spread Nutella on rice cakes, cut up strawberries, read, and close your eyes for five more minutes.

This is my favorite time to exist. And it’s great, no matter where you are. Whether you’re dishing out half-cooked pancakes onto a mosaic patio table at 5 a.m., overlooking pine trees and lakes, or watching microwaveable oatmeal make its rounds, wondering if you need to brush your hair today, or climbing into a car with your friends, headed toward the local cafes clad in pajamas, not up to the task of cooking; a calm morning with a great breakfast is a living masterpiece.

Toast is an American cultural classic that personally I didn’t appreciate until recently. Toast has an unbelievable amount of combinations when it comes to spreads. Hazelnut butter. Avocado. Strawberry, peach, grape, apple, pumpkin jam. Honey. Bananas. Blueberries. Cranberries. Bread is amazing. Slathering sweet and savory sauces on top is inundating and luxurious.

Breakfast is so personal. It’s one of the first decisions you make in the morning; what to eat, where to eat it, whether to skip or be late, delegating dishes to different time slots. It is the meal most commonly eaten alone. Who you spend your mornings with is important; you choose these people. These are the people you kick awake after a long night, the phone call you make groggily at 11:04 a.m. The mornings where your existence feels like an over-watered paint brush touching down on thick card stock, runny and spilling colorless water all over a pristine page- these are the days that can be doctored with a friend knowing that cool place in the city that makes great Eggs Benedict with a side of grapefruit.

Breakfast is messy. You are supposed to get syrup everywhere and stuck on your fingertips. You are supposed to spill a little bit of the Splenda sugar packet after three consecutive dumps into your morning coffee. It is supposed to rain, and you are supposed to wear sweatpants or heels from last night and there is supposed to be eyeliner under your eyes. Breakfast can be silent, or filled with spirited discussions about the dog walking by on the street or the merits of saving for a new car if your car isn’t that bad on gas mileage.

You breakfast with people you want to talk with even with no makeup on; you breakfast with people you won’t mind unevenly splitting the check with. You breakfast with the people you want to scoop, even if they live on the other side of town.

Breakfast is for love, for friendship, for the relationships that you know will last forever, or at least how long your forevers are.

 

 

 

 

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