I freaking love breakfast. Utterly. Truly. Deeply.
It is possibly the only meal of the day where I could take over the kitchen on early mornings. I would pound down the stairs, as if a 6 foot pine tree with a large portion of the beige floor beside it is splattered with an array of rainbow wrapped presents awaiting for a pair of greedy hands clawing them, unwrapping the secret they hide.
Unfortunately, this only occurs on weekends, which sort of interrupts my lovely dreams about being popular and impossibly perfect cross breeds of horses and turtles (please put an image of that in your mind). If I would want to break my fast the same way as I would on school days, I would have to wake up at an absurd hour of the morning and truth be told, I am a bit too young to sacrifice my beauty sleep.
This would considered to be a bit obsessive but beforehand, I like to scavenge the fantastic world of the internet for recipes on various pancakes and waffles soaked with sticky maple syrup and dotted with various berries; although I do not actually consume berries of any sort, the different shades of purple and red make any dish pop.
I would literally just wait for a Friday morning to come, or any sort of morning where I am home alone (winkwink), so I would just have a couple of hours all by myself, with my mug of coffee and tea (yes, I like to drink a cup of each), a plate full of goodness and, of course, my trusty pink Samsung laptop.
The warm March sun, shining through the sheer white curtains, the silence of the house with the exception of my breathing and Logan’s high pitched squeaking and the occasional sip of coffee (or tea).
Conclusion: Breakfasts are bomb.