I have time to write, but nothing to say. This is the reverse of my usual condition, at least in the sense that I have time. Truthfully, though, even my time will be up shortly, so it’s just as well I have nothing to say. Ahh, wait, I just thought of something.
We had breakfast at a different diner today. I’ve driven past this place a hundred times but was always put off by the sign on the door announcing “Ribs! Chicken! Beef!” They have almost as many types of meat as they have tables.
Breakfast is the hardest meal through which to maintain a healthy diet. Worldwide, traditional breakfast food choices are among the fattiest, most heart-stopping on the entire cultural menu: fat strips (fried), chicken ova (fried), stacks of refined-wheat “cakes” (fried, natch) served with butter and a chemical soup designed to evoke the gustatory properties of boiled tree sap. And that’s just in America. Other countries provide even more gruesome fare. Black pudding, popular in the UK, consists of pig blood and suet (a hardened animal fat that’s also used to make candles and soap). Vegemite, popular in Australia, is made from “yeast extract culled from brewery wastes.” Africans eat fried bees.
Even relatively innocuous domestic entrees are suspect: carbohydrates turn to glue, cow’s milk blah blah blah, fruit is reported by some to cause blood acidity and yeast infections. What’s left? Don’t tell me about raw vegetables; only ascetics eat salad for breakfast. Then again, I drank Klamath Lake algae this morning, so maybe I shouldn’t judge.
I think I’ve just committed a weblogging foul — writing about one’s breakfast is tantamount to admitting one has nothing of import to contribute. There’s some interesting commentary on this phenomenon in A List Apart’s forum, spawned by a thoughtful piece on web writing. (Search the forum page for “breakfast”.)