Monthly Archives: March 2015

Breakfast With Ogden Nash

Rashers of bacon all crisp and greasy.
Eggs poached and scrambled or fried over easy.

Flip the pancake and iron the waffle.
Toast without butter is utterly awful.

Pour out the coffee all steamy and hot
And scrape the porridge from out of the pot.

Potatoes home fried and hashed and browned
French toast with syrup all smothered and drowned

The stations are closed and the airports are fogged in.
How will I get to my breakfast with Ogden?

Breakfast at Hemingway’s

You know how it is Sunday morning when everyone else is asleep until the newspaper slams against the front door sounding like the crack of a rifle? I put the Thompson sub-machine gun back into its well-oiled case, lined with the fleece of a Basque sheep. “Those eggs are well and truly scrambled now”, I thought. As I ate them, the earth moved. Yes, the eggs are well and truly scrambled; they are the eggs of a man. Here, have some.

Breakfast at Faulkner’s

It had been three hours since I arrived, up the long path through the formal gardens and promenades, anticipating our breakfast together-it was in Yakayakaonanona County, the site of the utter defeat of early Southern brevity by way of the patience borne of nothing better to do- (one may have wondered why, but it was too late for that now). We sat in the parlor as the dust motes floated, dancing in the lace-filtered sunlight, dust motes that had been raised and raised again even back to the tramping of the Confederate troops marching off in innocent eagerness to their spectral future. I thought I smelled coffee, reminding me of why I had come in such eager anticipation of a breakfast long forgotten but now remembered. “I’ll go see what’s keeping them,” he said.

Breakfast With Lewis Carroll

Jabberclocky

‘Twas brekkie, and the slidey toasts
In melty butter overgrabe.
All drippy sat the jellydoughs
With marma and with lade.

“Turn back the jabber clock someone,
With Its clicky ticks and snabby tocks,
And while you’re up shut down the tube,
That blabby babble box.”

His universal smart remote
He quickly took in hand,
And twirly-whirled it round the room
From couch to table stand.

Its buttons smartly overpushed
By brave and doughty lad,
Enrobed us in a newly quiet,
The quietest we’d had.

“Oh, bright and nimbly junior son
No prize can be too great.
You’ve slain the babbly blabber box
Now sit, it’s time we ate.”

‘Twas brekkie, and the slidey toasts
in melty butter overgrabe.
All drippy sat the jellydoughs
With marma and with lade.