Here’s to breakfast out

I love breakfast out. I love it better than any other meal that I may choose for a meal out, where someone else prepares the food and is responsible for cleanup.
Breakfast is the “fun-est” meal of the day, or so I claimed as a youngster despite being told repeatedly that “fun-est” is not a real word (siblings can put a damper on just about everything).
“Fun-est” should be a real word; it’s a great word, though it must never be confused with funniest because there is nothing funny about breakfast out.
Breakfast was the only meal of the day I embraced with any vigour and enthusiasm when I was little. I wasn’t a picky eater; I was a non-eater. To be honest, I had a serious aversion to mashed potatoes and boiled cabbage, and that often spilled over to creamed corn, which still makes me squeamish.
As a result, I spent many an hour at the kitchen table staring at my supper—willing it to vanish or, at the very least, to shrink—while everyone else was off having far more fun than they should have been in light of my predicament.
I was lonely while I sat at the table, filled with self-pity while plotting my escape, but still I didn’t eat. Perhaps this is where the stubborn comes into play.
But breakfast? Now there was a meal I could get behind.
Breakfast out is a luxurious treat, to eat that which is familiar: eggs, bacon and toast, freshly-brewed coffee, and maybe a small glass of orange juice it it’s fresh.
I skip the home fries (not a fan). And I like my coffee cream in one of those teeny pitchers (personal size).
The thing about breakfast out is there is no dress code. A body could show up in her jammies and get served without complaint and without raised eyebrows. Breakfast is a definite come-as-you-are.
Some breakfast establishments come up short in their offering of early-morning cuisine. I don’t often give these businesses a three-strikes-and-you’re-out sort of option (one miss and I walk).
But once I’ve found “home base,” so to speak, I’m faithful to the end.
I haven’t quite located the perfect breakfast spot here in Nova Scotia. The ambience isn’t critical but I do need a friendly waitress; one with an easy and ready smile, who calls me honey or dearie as long as she is older than me (this is the only situation where I allow words of this nature).
I like a pencil behind her ear—it’s a nostalgic look, a comforting habit of readiness. I want her to be efficient, but not in a hurry. I don’t want her looking harried and on the verge of collapse.
And even if it is feigned, I want her smile to say I’m so glad you came.
I don’t like a drafty, airy space. I want to feel cozy and tucked in. I like a comfy chair and a level table; not one that I have to wrestle with to keep it from rocking back and forth.
And I like thick brown toast, with just the right amount of butter.
When I start the day off with this kind of breakfast out, as though the stars have aligned just for me, almost anything can go wrong later and it won’t ruin my day.
So here’s to breakfast, especially breakfast out.
Yes, I’ll have a coffee refill. Cream please.