1. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
2. When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last, “what’s the first thing you say to yourself?”
“What’s for breakfast?” said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?”
“I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today?” said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the same thing,” he said.
3. Alice laughed. ‘There’s no use trying,’ she said. ‘One can’t believe impossible things.’
I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen. ‘When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. There goes the shawl again!
4. I went to a restaurant that serves “breakfast at any time” so I ordered French toast during the Renaissance.
5. And now leave me in peace for a bit! I don’t want to answer a string of questions while I am eating. I want to think!”
“Good Heavens!” said Pippin. “At breakfast?
6. I like sex for breakfast, kid. I eat early and often.
7. We’ve been rehearsing a classic from antiquity, Green Eggs and Hamlet, the story of a young prince of Denmark who goes mad, drowns his girlfriend, and in his remorse, forces spoiled breakfast on all whom he meets.
8. One should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast.
9. If it’s not chocolate, it’s not breakfast.
10. I was seven before I realized that you could eat breakfast with your pants on.
11. I know family comes first, but shouldn’t that mean after breakfast?
12. Remember the days when you let your child have some chocolate if he finished his cereal? Now, chocolate is one of the cereals.
13. I have no idea what that is, but yawn, anyway, just on principle. Eat up. Pancakes is brain food.
Apparently not grammar food.
Wow.You college girls are mean.
14. All worries are less with wine.
15. Everyone runs around trying to find a place where they still serve breakfast because eating breakfast, even if it’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon, is a sign that the day has just begun and good things can still happen. Having lunch is like throwing in the towel.
16. In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg.
Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
17. Anisette! You will eat your food, not demonstrate aerial warfare across the table with it.
18. I’m really not hungry,” she repeated, lifting the coffee cup and inhaling the fragrant steam before sipping.
“Just a few bites,” he cajoled, taking his own place beside her. “You need to keep up your strength for tonight.”
She gave him a heated, slumberous look, remembering her fantasy. “Why? Are you planning something special?”
“I suppose I am,” he said consideringly. “It’s special every time we make love.
19. In Wilson’s scale of evaluations breakfast rated just after life itself and ahead of the chance of immortality.”
~ By His Bootstraps / Robert A. Heinlein
20. When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, requests breakfast and taxi money. In the morning that lady requested breakfast and taxi money. You don’t ask for taxi money from somebody who raped you.
21. Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly-arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table.
22. It puzzled K., at least it puzzled him looking at it from the policemen’s point of view, that they had made him go into the room and left him alone there, where he had ten different ways of killing himself. At the same time, though, he asked himself, this time looking at it from his own point of view, what reason he could have to do so. Because those two were sitting there in the next room and had taken his breakfast, perhaps?
23. Her cuisine is limited but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman.
24. He expected pages and pages of bright pictures of pancakes of every variety shown in plain stacks, or built into castles or bridges or igloos, or shaped like airplanes or rowboats or fire engines. And pitchers of syrup to choose from — partridge berry syrup, thimbleberry syrup, huckleberry syrup, bosenberry syrup, and raspberry syrup. Then there would be cheese plates and cheeses a la carte. Creamy cheeses, crumbly cheeses, and peculiar little cheeses in peculiar little clay pots.
25. Relations were never good (how comfortable can you really be with a race that sees you as a nutritious part of a complete breakfast).
26. Breakfast alone by gaslight is about as ghastly as champagne in daylight.
27. A real prison breakfast” I said.
“Yeah, but we are free.”
And that summed it up.
28. I think maybe today a poem I hope
after breakfast I start trying
pulling it out of my own gut
mostly by force.
29. Poisoning us,” Bren said, faced with what was a truly attractive service, and with the servants still in the room, “is a process of inconveniently many steps, though conservative of the furniture. One believes we may just have breakfast this morning, nadiin-ji.
30. Take your hallowed halls of Congress or the littered floor of the Stock Exchange, America is built on its pancake houses!
31. Well?’ he asks when I don’t open my eyes and silently savor the goodness. ‘What do you taste?’
I smile despite myself. ‘The most amazing waffles under the sun.
32. Good Morning.
Let your breakfast recharge your smile, warm your heart and brighten your day
33. Just as calories differ according to how they affect the body, so too do carbohydrates. All carbohydrates break down into sugar, but the rate at which this occurs in the digestive tract varies tremendously from food to food. This difference forms the basis for the glycemic index (GI).
The GI ranks carbohydrate-containing foods according to how they affect blood glucose, from 0 (no affect at all) to 100 (equal to glucose). Gram for gram, most starchy foods raise blood glucose to very high levels and therefore have high GI values. In fact, highly processed grain products – like white bread, white rice, and prepared breakfast cereals – and the modern white potato digest so quickly that their GI ratings are even greater than table sugar (sucrose). So for breakfast, you could have a bowl of cornflakes with no added sugar, or a bowl of sugar with no added cornflakes. They would taste different but, below the neck, act more or less the same.
A related concept is the glycemic load (GL), which accounts for the different carbohydrate content of foods typically consumed. Watermelon has a high GI, but relatively little carbohydrate in a standard serving, producing a moderate GL. In contrast, white potato has a high GI and lots of carbohydrate in a serving, producing a high GL. If this sounds a bit complicated, think of GI as describing how foods rank in a laboratory setting, whereas GL as applying more directly to a real-life setting. Research has shown that the GL reliably predicts, to within about 90 percent, how blood glucose will change after an actual meal – much better than simply counting carbohydrates as people with diabetes have been taught to do.
34. One of the bad habits I developed in very high altitude astronomy was eating a bowl of free ice cream for breakfast, as the free cooked breakfast would make me feel really sickly when at the summit of Mauna Kea.
35. I plucked a sprig of rosemary from the pot in the windowsill, and as I inhaled its fresh scent, something flashed in my mind.
I went to the pantry and took out a jar of wildflower honey. I held it up to make sure I had enough, and the sun lit it up like a jar of gold. There was that flash again- I almost had it, but it slipped away.
I preheated the oven and mixed my ingredients. I sprinkled in the fragrant rosemary. Remember, Mimi. What have you forgotten?
By the time I got the pan in the oven, Dad had come downstairs. He sniffed the air. “Rosemary, huh? What are you making?”
“Rosemary-honey-olive oil muffins.”
“Did you add white pepper, like we talked about last time?”
I grinned. “A tiny bit. Next time, do you think we should try it with goat’s milk?
36. I served breakfast in the bedroom.
Porridge. Upma. Papaya.
Toast with unsalted cheese.
37. Buttermilk pancakes weren’t typically equipped to fill gaping holes in one’s heart, but the ones I ate that day at Howie’s came pretty darn close. My first bite of Wilma’s Cakes made my mouth water while eating. They were spongy and light but still had some gumption. The buttermilk seemed to be paired with something fantastic- sour cream? Crème fraîche? Not here, certainly… There were subtle notes of nutmeg and cinnamon, just the right touch without the pancake turning into a spice fest.
I moaned while I bit into a raspberry muffin.
“Exactly,” Manda said, her eyes closed around the joy of a pecan roll. “Better than you-know-what.”
“Watch it, now,” Jack said, but without heart. His bacon, asparagus, and goat cheese omelet was nearly gone, but he ate with one protective arm curled around his plate in defense anyway.
38. It’s Cheetos or nothing.
39. Breakfast is ready
Strawberry jam and a piece of bread
Oh, do not rush to go
Your glass of Milk is still half full
Let me sit always by your side
And I immersed in your beautiful eyes
40. A good breakfast is a motivation for the day.
41. Well, I did have 2 pancakes with chocolate spread and stuff but I got hungry.
42. It was the best omelet Adrienne had ever eaten. Perfectly cooked so that the eggs were soft and buttery. Filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms and melted Camembert cheese. There were three roasted cherry tomatoes on the plate, skins splitting, oozing juice. Nutty wheat toast. Thatch had brought butter and jam to the table. The butter was served like a tiny cheesecake on a small pedestal under a glass dome. The jam was apricot, homemade, served from a Ball jar.
43. From the cobbled Close, we all admired the Minster’s great towers of fretted stone soaring to the clouds, every inch carved as fine as lacework. Once we had passed into the nave, I surrendered my scruples to that glorious hush that tells of a higher presence than ourselves. It was a bright winter’s day, and the vaulted windows tinted the air with dappled rainbows. Sitting quietly in my pew, I recognized a change in myself; that every morning I woke quite glad to be alive. Instead of fitful notions of footsteps at midnight, each new day was heralded by cheery sounds outside my window: the post-horn’s trumpeting and the cries and songs of busy, prosperous people. I was still young and vital, with no need for bed rest or sleeping draughts. I was ready to face whatever the future held. However troubled my marriage was, it was better by far than my former life with my father. Dropping my face into my clasped hands, I glimpsed in reverie a sort of labyrinth, a mysterious path I must traverse in the months to come. I could not say what trials lay ahead of me- but I knew that I must be strong, and win whatever happiness I might glean on this earth.
It was easy to make such a resolution when, as yet, I faced no actual difficulties. Each morning, Anne and I returned from our various errands to take breakfast at our lodgings. Awaiting us stood a steaming pot of chocolate and a plate of Mrs. Palmer’s toast and excellent buns. Anne and I both heartily agreed that if time might halt we should have liked every day to be that same day, the gilt clock chiming ten o’clock, warming our stockinged feet on the fire fender, splitting a plate of Fat Rascals with butter and preserves, with all the delightful day stretching before us.
44. As Ross entered the kitchen, he saw Ernest sitting at the scrubbed wooden table. The boy wolfed down a plate of breakfast as if it were the first decent meal he’d had in months. Sophia stood at the range with the scrawny cook-maid, apparently showing her how to prepare the morning’s fare. “Turn them like this,” Sophia was saying, expertly flipping a row of little cakes on a griddle pan. The kitchen atmosphere was especially fragrant today, spiced with frying bacon, coffee, and sizzling batter.
Sophia looked fresh and wholesome, the trim curves of her figure outlined by a white apron that covered her charcoal-gray dress. Her gleaming hair was pinned in a coil at the top of her head and tied with a blue ribbon. As she saw him standing in the doorway, a smile lit her sapphire eyes, and she was so dazzlingly pretty that Ross felt a painful jab low in his stomach.
“Good morning, Sir Ross,” she said. “Will you have some breakfast?”
“No, thank you,” he replied automatically. “Only a jug of coffee. I never…” He paused as the cook set a platter on the table. It was piled with steaming batter cakes sitting in a pool of blackberry sauce. He had a special fondness for blackberries.
“Just one or two?” Sophia coaxed.
Abruptly it became less important that he adhere to his usual habits. Perhaps he could make time for a little breakfast, Ross reasoned. A five-minute delay would make no difference in his schedule.
He found himself seated at the table facing a plate heaped with cakes, crisp bacon, and coddled eggs. Sophia filled a mug with steaming black coffee, and smiled at him once more before resuming her place at the range with Eliza. Ross picked up his fork and stared at it as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
“They’re good, sir,” Ernest ventured, stuffing his mouth so greedily that it seemed likely he would choke.
Ross took a bite of the fruit-soaked cake and washed it down with a swallow of hot coffee. As he continued to eat, he felt an unfamiliar sense of well-being. Good God, it had been a long time since he’d had anything other than Eliza’s wretched concoctions.
For the next few minutes Ross ate until the platter of cakes was demolished. Sophia came now and then to refill his cup or offer more bacon. The cozy warmth of the kitchen and the sight of Sophia as she moved about the room caused a tide of unwilling pleasure inside him.
45. The small pergola that Michael had built was covered in loops of jasmine, and Lara’s flower beds were blazing with color. Blowsy white peonies, dusky purple irises with golden stripes, pale orange poppies with sooty centers. The first tea roses of the year were budding. Elinas, pink petals tipped with crimson, and the ivory Jeanne Moreaus that smelled faintly of lemons. Lara wanted to pick one and put it on the breakfast tray, but Michael hated cut flowers.
She went back inside and began to set the tray. Her mother’s blue Venetian glass dish filled with raspberries. Orange juice in a white jug. A honey pot with a wooden dipper.
Sunshine streamed in through the window, warming the terra-cotta tiles beneath her bare feet. She could not have cut flowers in the house so she had pictures of them instead. Two huge framed Georgia O’Keefe poppy prints. An apron with a pattern of climbing roses. A wooden clock that Phil had given her with a pendulum in the shape of a red rose.
46. It had looked so simple when she’d made it, but when he cut into it and tasted it, he realized he’d missed some stuff while he’d been making coffee. There were herbs in there or spices or something, and the egg was light- Fluffy, he thought- and the pepper still had crunch to it but was buttery, too.
47. The muffin halves popped up from the toaster on the counter behind him, and she stood up to get them, the scent of her mixing with the hot yeasty smell of the muffins, and the buttery, peppery smell of the eggs, and the fat, spicy smell of the sausage, and Shane lost track of where he was in conversation.
48. He began to eat, only half-distracted by Agnes’s food this time- the ham crisp and sweet, the cakes thick and light, studded with pecans, the syrup falling in ropes to mix with the melting butter.
49. They’d agreed no more surprise ingredients, either, though Gus wasn’t entirely reassured, and settled on a menu of pancakes with fruit compote and fresh whipped cream, Spanish omelet, and a wonderful blood-orange mimosa.
50. She could picture it now, a huge stack of fluffy pumpkin waffles with maple syrup and spiced cinnamon butter, the perfect breakfast for fall. Something that tasted like crisp, cool air and golden-orange leaves and bundling up in her favorite sweater. Something that tasted like home.
51. No breakfast which is not eaten in nature can enter the class of perfect breakfast!
52. There were poached eggs, broiled grapefruit halves, a rasher of bacon, and a basket of small oblong cakes that appeared to have been twisted and turned partially inside out before they had been deep-fried to golden brown.
“What are these?” Cassandra asked the waiter.
“Those are called Jersey Wonders, milady. They’ve been made on the island since before I was a boy.”
After the waiter had finished setting out the food and left, Cassandra picked up one of the cakes and took a bite. The outside was lightly crisp, the inside soft and flavored with ginger and nutmeg. “Mmm.”
Tom chuckled. He came to seat her at the table, and bent to kiss her temple. “A cake that’s shaped like a shoe,” he murmured. “How perfect for you.
53. The king poured maple syrup on his waffle. The syrup puddled the depressions in the waffle the way that desire puddles the folds in the brain.
54. Why is a bowl of frosted cereal loops with added rainbow marshmallows allowed to count as ‘breakfast’ and not ‘sweets’.
55. If food is a fuel, we should feel that the tank is emptiest when the longest time has elapsed since it was filled – usually in the morning.
56. Cereal is a medium through which we learn to confuse hunger with marketing.
57. The cereals marketed for children are consistently the most sugary and highly processed in the whole cereal aisle.
58. Breakfast, when the night’s secrets go unspoken and the day’s plans echo the cock’s crow.
59. Such harsh truths so early in the morning cannot be good for digestion.” – Will Herondale
60. The softest pain on earth must be the pain au chocolat.