My last words on breakfast
This thing I’m doing, this thing where I try to write a blog post article thing every day this month, is good. But it’s not without its flaws.
You see, I’m always in such a sweaty rush to quickly send a blog post spinning through cyberspace, spurred on by a fear of being subjected to the torturous public humiliation that is being force-fed socks. And this sickening hurriedness means that I often hit Publish before I’ve really said all I want to.
My two articles on breakfast have proved phenomenally successful. But thanks to my aforementioned eagerness to get the stuff out in as much of a jiffy as possible, I’ve still got plenty piping-hot issues on my chest, which I would quite like to get off my chest because the piping-hot nature of them is scorching my nipples rather horribly.
So, that’s what I’m doing right here, right now. Getting some final breakfast-related issues off my chest, so that I can go on to live the rest of my life happily in the knowledge that I’ve said all there is to be said.
I’d better get started, then. Time to make a few more important remarks on that most pressing of issues, breakfast cereal.
On Saturday, I found myself with a wealth of breakfast cereal possibilities. I could eat either Bran Flakes or Malt Wheats, and I chose Malt Wheats. I then had the option of drizzling some raspberry coulis on the Wheats, which I opted for. Then I drizzled on some semi-skimmed right – that’s right, semi-skimmed! – milk, and then I decided to sprinkle on some drinking chocolate.
I manged two mouthfuls, before tipping the lot in the bin and just eating a croissant.
Suffice to say, I just had some plain Malt Wheats with milk the next day. Never again will I dare indulge in such gratuitous and nauseating frippery as drinking chocolate powder and raspberry coulis.
Also, on the issue of milk, what’s up with filtered milk? Filtered milk. It’s just such a stupid, stupid idea. Apparently, it stays fresh for longer, because they do something to it and keep it in a special bottle that is too close to opaque for one to be able to easily discern how much milk is left.
The only other thing I can think of about cereal is that sometimes fruit is nice.
OK then, onto toast. I have more to say about his one. I didn’t even get to mention the sodding marmalade yesterday. That’s how serious this is.
I am quite fussy about marmalade. I am a Frank Cooper’s Vintage Oxford Marmalade man. Anything else – even Frank Cooper’s Original Oxford Marmalade – is disgusting, and I think it resembles the poo of the Beelzebub, when said thing has been eating Australian bacon.
My mother is making marmalade today, incredibly. The pan is massive. I look forward to it. I will mention it here when I’ve had the opportunity to get my chops around some.
Jam is good. Honey is good, although it mustn’t bee (happy accident typo there!) too runny or too hard, and I’m not sure what I’ll do when the bees all die as they’re supposedly doing.
Marmite… well, I am starting to get into that particular condiment. You must be modest with your spreading, though. My great uncle is famed for his mountainous helpings of butter and honey, and I suspect his experiences with the yeast extract have been unhappy ones. Those Marmite jars are ludicrously tiny for a reason, you know.
Sometimes I eat a crumpet, although I find that they generally collapse under the pressure of the Marmite. They are jolly feeble.
Croissants are good. Pain au chocolat, though, is miles better.
Phew. All that should satisfy my cravings for writing about breakfast. For a few weeks. Maybe. This was another rushed article, and my legs are shaking like you couldn’t imagine, but at least I have ensured that socks will not be on the menu tomorrow morning.