Reading Series: Breakfast Potatoes by Alex Mika

Source: Alex Mika

Breakfast Potatoes

It is so indecent to die in the morning. I woke up with the expectation that I would have the day. All my appointments were arranged: I made reservations in the finest places for brunch, lunch and dinner (places, I may add, that charge for those reservations). Are those spots going to waste or is someone going to eat on my dollar? Either way, I’ve been robbed. 

After a wonderful meal the previous night, consisting of foie gras on thinly sliced brioche, sauce of framboise with pommes puree on the side, naturally finished with the finest aged port and crème brûlée, I was so nearly satisfied that I couldn’t help but order the tiramisu to top things off. But as wonderful as the meal was, I truly didn’t appreciate the framboise until I gave it my undivided attention the second time around. 

After dinner, I always engage in exercise, knowing that in the absence of a shot of digestif, a walk is the greatest aid to the management of a meal. Besides, it wasn’t worth taking a taxi home when I lived only a block away from the restaurant. Absorbing the sound of the evening streets of the city, I kicked around the remains of a soiled, wadded-up newspaper, recalling the delight of dietary joys not experienced so fully since the tastes of my childhood. Soon, I arrived at the apartment complex I called home. I was in such a jovial mood I almost tipped the doorman. I rode the elevator in bliss, chuckling to myself like a schoolboy all the way up to the second floor. There, humming to myself, I unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen, where my wife so kindly left me dinner: a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, with black forest bacon, tomato, lettuce, garlic aioli and a side of papers calling for divorce. 

Upon completion, I had my nightcap with a few pages of Crime and Punishment before retiring for the evening. Despite his best efforts, even Dostoevsky couldn’t ruin my mood. I slipped under the cold covers, rubbed my legs together like a cricket anticipating rain, and nodded off. I experienced the most restful and pleasant sleep of my life that night. As is customary after consuming whole wheat bread before sleep, I dreamt of the largest sugarplums being brought to me on plates of pewter. Had it been rye bread or white, I would have had the most dreadful nightmares and woken up with a crick in my neck or an upset stomach. No, that morning, I woke up in the most generous of moods. 

Heartily yawning, I got out of bed, scratched myself, and dressed before getting the paper. Having completed those calisthenics, my appetite was yearning for a breakfast to compete with last night’s festivities. I indulged myself with the breakfast of common kings: a sesame bagel toasted with egg, cheese, avocado and salmon. I stirred the coffee with silver (it makes the coffee taste better), brought it up to my mouth, took a massive whiff of the earthy scent, blew, and let the warm ambrosia glide down my throat. Filled to the brim with ecstasy, my heart burst and I died with the spoon still in my mouth. Maybe the avocado was too much.

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