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scribbles

the full breakfast

In Ireland, I was seduced by a soda bread. You never forget your first. We'd met over a breakfast table in a small hotel, fuzzy after a Friday night of Irish standard drinking. A brief, wordless relationship ensued. A carbohydrate climax ensued.

Blame it on the drinks or on the Galway morning air or blame it on the boogie from the night before. It may have been poor judgement on my part, but I'm not for a second sorry. That soda bread, my friend, was just the ticket. Just the right thing to complement the splendid hot grub on the breakfast plate.

We are all, of course, attending to our five portions a day of life- enhancing vegetables and fruit. Cauliflower, bok choi, baby spinach, that sort of thing. I can barely type for drooling.

For us Celts and Northern Europeans - starved of sunlight and the joys thereof, prone to Seasonal Affected Disorder and the regular intake of alcohol to limit said disorder - the bliss of hot stodge after a night of fighting SAD is without parallel. The fried egg, the sausage (square or links - bring it on), the beans, the potato scone, the bacon with This Much ketchup, the warm buttered toast - God himself noshes into this stuff on a Sunday morning, reading the sports pages and wishing He'd sent somebody out to get another roll.

The presence of a tomato in a breakfast as described above is to some, incongruous. Others see it as providing balance – providing one of the five portions and boasting it’s healthy credentials further by the fact of being grilled.

The full breakfast is so-called because it leaves you full. The implication is that other sorts of breakfast leave you wanting more – and that’s no way to start the day.
wreckered news satire