This morning’s victuals are indeed quite more robust than to what I am used. A cold, hard-boiled egg begins the hearty romp through my palate, taken from it’s refuge where it previously awaited becoming salad fixings. There is no forgiveness as I steal it from it’s temporary home and other hard-boiled companion to digest it whole, without drink, as only a man can do.
The bacon is left over from another time and place, but there is enough hiding in the back of the fridge for me to heat up and devour, noisily lapping splattered grease from my face and fingers.
Lastly we have toast rounding out the hearty triumvirate. One masculine piece delicately covered in a seducing layer of the Queen’s own strawberry jam, while the other piece proudly bears Skippy peanut butter aloft to it gastric doom.