Breakfast

My dad was the breakfast-maker when I was growing up. Never anything fancy: boiled eggs, rye toast, kasha, and in the summer, cornflakes with strawberries.

I continue the basic breakfast trend. Granola and fresh fruit, oatmeal and nuts, or toast with almond butter. But I use only the best bread: St John’s Bakery, or Dufferin Grove Park’s. The granola is from Harbord Bakery, rich and moist, and the strawberries are local.

The Anti-Poverty Organizer has been known to make me perfect French toast, with Portuguese cornbread and Ontario maple syrup, yogurt and fruit. The Blue-Eyed Stranger makes me the best homefries I’ve ever eaten, and pancakes so light yet wholewheaty they practically float over the plate. When I visit my ma, it’s eggs every morning, fried in a ton of butter, or perfectly boiled, the ubiquitous rye toast filling out the plate.

The Guitar Player made fantastic scrambled eggs. The folks at Fanny Bay produce smoothies that sing. The gay boys running Inn on Somerset in Ottawa leave you to your thoughts at breakfast, and quietly place a plate of queerly over-the-top stuffed baked eggs in front of you.

I get fancier with guests. Frittata with feta cheese, tomatoes and olives. Montreal bagels, cream cheese and lox. Mushroom cheese omelette. For The Novelist, once, I even attempted French toast. The crunch and rustle of the Saturday paper. And always, creamy lattes made with organic espresso.

Breakfast is pre-discursive, intuitive, non-linear. Breakfast is looser, less rule-bound than any other meal. I love breakfast. Breakfast is love.

Has anyone made you breakfast lately? What will you make for yourself? For someone else? Where will you eat it, and what will it be?