Tag Archives: breakfast

2082. Hospital emergency

Goodness, exclaimed Leith gazing at the calendar on his dining room wall, it’s March 20 already. I thought it was only Thursday.

He had spent all week, days and a good part of the nights, at the hospital. This was his first breakfast at home since that Monday. He was dog tired, and now there was so much to arrange; so many people to contact and so many questions to answer. Being the weekend made it doubly worse because people were away and much harder to contact.

Had his wife, Antonia, been there things would have been easier. She could do half the work. But goodness me! How silly of him! She was gone! Gone forever…

Leith forced himself to eat a piece of toast. The butter in the fridge was rock solid. He went without and spread a bit of apricot jam on the slice. It was horrible and cold. He had better face the task at hand.

It was tedious being a plumber. How three water mains burst at the hospital all in one week was a mystery.

1771. Breakfast announcement

Children! Children! Continue to eat you breakfast but listen while I’m talking.

Johnny Sunderland! Get back to your place and eat you cornflakes and stop messing around.

As you know, this institution is called an orphanage although not everyone here is an orphan. Some of you have parents but you’ve ended up here for different reasons. Some of your parents are on drugs; some of you are here because your parents didn’t like you; some of you are here simply because your parents are too sick to take proper care of you.

That is the case for Johnny Sunderland. His mother was dying of cancer so Johnny came here to be cared for properly. Johnny Sunderland! Would you sit down and stop messing around. Listen, because this announcement concerns you.

I want you to be particularly nice to Johnny today because his mother died last night. Johnny Sunderland, sit down! I will see you in my office after you’ve finished breakfast.

Poem 79: How long the shadows fall

How long the shadows fall
this breakfast time. How tall in height,
(as if in evening light)
the fence posts stand, as might night guards,
freezing in sun’s weak shards.
A bitter morning. Hardened ice.
Desolate wind with vice
-like grip, ready to slice the heart.

For me to light the fire
is to admit that you’re not here.
The early morning’s cheer-
ful warmth that only yesterday
you lit, your final day,
before the Fates held sway and snipped
your thread of life, and clipped
forever what bound you to me.

How long the shadows fall
this first breakfast time.

1282. Kitty’s obsession

Katrina, sometimes called Kitty and sometimes Kit depending on… on… absolutely nothing, was enthusiastically into yoga. It was yoga for breakfast, lunch and dinner – as the saying goes. To all intents and purposes it could be said that she was addicted to it. An obsession!

Personally I can’t stand the stuff. If anyone offered me yoga for breakfast I’d say, no thanks just a slice of toast and a coffee will do me fine.

1279. Brown eggs

Una and Rory had been married for fifty-two years. For fifty-two years Rory had devoured a boiled egg for breakfast. One egg and a slice of toast. Una made it for him every morning.

Rory was a little fussy; the egg had to be dark brown. Brown eggs were healthy. White eggs were feeble and lacked vitamins and health. A daily dark brown egg it had to be. Brown eggs came from healthy, robust chickens.

“It’s the brown eggs what done it,” said Rory on his eightieth birthday. Which just goes to show that Una’s secret of boiling a white egg in tea was good for the health.

1213. Merran’s little Shih Tzu

Merran loved her little Shih Tzu. Throughout her life she had always had a little dog, but Lan Dong was her favourite canine of all time. Merran always stood in her kitchen to have her breakfast. It was usually just a slice of toast with butter and honey, always made meticulously after she had taken her heart pills and downed a large glass of water. If she dropped some toast crumbs on the kitchen floor, Lan Dong would instantly snaffle them up.

“You’re a regular little vacuum cleaner,” Merran would say. “Who needs a broom when Lan Dong is about?”

Anyway, on this particular day, as she was taking her medication, Merran accidently dropped her open bottle of heart pills.

1039. A good reason to skip breakfast

It was breakfast time. The table was set, and quite frankly Marmaduke, the person having breakfast, was fed up.

“I’m sick of your weak yolks,” Marmaduke said to the Brown Egg.

“I agree,” said the Cornflakes. “We are not a muesli.”

“No need to milk it,” said the Muesli.

“Don’t egg him on,” said the Milk.

“It’s hard to take any of you cerealously,” said the Brown Egg.

“Don’t be so harsh, Brown,” said the Butter.

“Spread out!” chorused the cereals. “We would like to make a toast: to this happy brunch!”

“To this merry brunch of simple yolks!” said one and all.

Marmaduke left in disgust. In future he’d skip breakfast.

814. Skipping breakfast


Hunter Hetherington was a great proponent of the healthy breakfast. Skipping breakfast has pretty consistently been linked to health risks: high blood pressure, overweight, and an unhealthy assortment of blood-fats.

Hunter never skipped breakfast. You could say he was a health fanatic. Men who skip breakfast, he said, were 27% more likely to experience a heart attack or to die as the result of coronary heart disease. The men who skip breakfast were more likely to be single, smokers, employed full-time, to drink more alcohol, were younger, and were less likely to be physically active than people who ate breakfast.

Let us learn from what Hunter Hetherington says, as today we gather to mourn his sudden passing.

795. Breaking news


Toby liked to start his breakfast off with a banana. He’d done that for years. Of course, bananas ripen fairly quickly, so he bought a small bunch several times a week. In fact, he bought four bananas on a Monday and three bananas on a Friday.

After eating the banana, Toby would have some cereal, and then a slice of toast with strawberry jam. Then he would finish it off with a cup of coffee.

He would begin having breakfast at four minutes to seven. That gave him time to eat the banana and prepare the cereal just before the morning news on television. He also put a slice of bread into the toaster but didn’t turn it on. He found that there was the perfect amount of time during the first lot of advertisements to toast the slice, spread butter and jam on it, and sit down again for the next part of the news. While the toast toasted, he turned on the kettle. Then during the second lot of advertisements he could make the coffee. The noise from the kettle boiling while trying to watch television was a little aggravating. And he had to get up and turn the kettle off manually. He’d been meaning to buy one of those kettles that switched itself off once the water had reached boiling point.

This morning however, was a bad day; a very bad day. It was Friday. Only yesterday afternoon his daughter had visited with her two children. And this morning – how could he watch the news? goodness me – there was no banana.

642. Hot breakfast

© Bruce Goodman 14 July 2015


(This story comes with a strong language warning for those of more discerning taste).

Once every two weeks or so, Mr Selwyn Bergquist would have breakfast at The Morning Egg on Main Street. If he had breakfast alone he always ordered “Colonial Fare”: a mixture of sausages, black pudding, fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. It came with a bottomless cup of coffee.

In recent times, however, Mr Selwyn Bergquist had brought along a guest; sometimes two. He would “show off”.

“These eggs are runny. You know I always have them hard. Take them back.”

“This toast has touches of burn along one side. Take it back.”

“This black pudding does not come up to the usual standard. Take it back.”

On and on would go Mr Selwyn Bergquist. The cook was beside himself. The manager of The Morning Egg had approached Mr Bergquist in private. The manager told him they were very unhappy when he had guests. Please refrain from your loud negative criticisms or eat elsewhere.

Mr Selwyn Bergquist was outraged. The following week he brought along three guests, “from overseas!” They were rich! They were famous! The Morning Egg should be honoured to have them eat in its premises.

“And this egg is hard. You know I like it runny. Take it back.”

The manager appeared.

“You and your fucking toffee-nosed swanky friends can shove the fucking eggs up your fucking arseholes, you bitchtited snorting testicle-faced twot. Either eat the fucking stuff or piss off.”

Mr Selwyn Bergquist stormed out. The following morning, the three “from overseas” came back for breakfast.

“We rather enjoy the cayenne pepper that comes with the food,” they said.

It caught on. The Morning Egg is now The Rude Crude Food. The place is always packed. The manager’s had to learn new strings of invective. The cook loves it; he can cook any-which-way provided the clients complain.