Breakfast

I seem to have a firm belief that a bad night can be solved with a good breakfast. I don't know where this belief came from or how long I've had it but this morning I decided that it was so.

I had a bad night. I wound up replacing sleep with Cabin Pressure and How I Met Your Mother. And some hurried mouthfuls of cold macaroni and cheese in the dark kitchen at 6 AM and a small bag of mini jaw breakers in my nightstand. So around nine o'clock I decided that what I really needed was a good breakfast and set about to making one.

The kitchen was where the trouble started the night before. I had bitten off most of my nail polish the night before and my fingers were cracked and raw and stinging. My left thumb required band-aids. But I shouldered on and came up with two scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, tea, orange juice, water, and a tortilla. I felt that bread would make me sad.

I ate this while reading This Side of Paradise and part-way through my plate my older sister had joined me in silence with a book of her own. The watery winter sun was just glancing through the window and the snow on the ground reflected some of the light back. A but of tiny snowflakes, more like ice crystals, could occasionally be seen when caught in a ray. This stirred in me my latent desire for a proper room in which to take breakfast.

Breakfast rooms remind me of spring, and silent mornings where I am alone and wake up willingly, and the works of Kate Chopin which, despite all of the pigeons and other strange happenings from my AP Lit class, I will begrudgingly admit I enjoyed. I know that if when I have a place of my own I have an honest-to-God breakfast room, I will be doing all right by my adolescent self.