I don’t know how you got here, the events that lead you to my doorstep. I don’t care all that much, just happy to have you. Whether you’re new to the neighborhood or already having your mail forwarded, it’s probably become clear to you that this site is not about breakfast. In fact, there’s only one post that goes anywhere near the topic– and even that’s just about coffee. If I haven’t committed to the theme why the title?

There’s something about anxiety that makes you cling to the smallest of rituals. Of course, worn out by time, those rituals sometimes turn to compulsions. Others, though, stay the course and continue to provide subtle comfort. For me, the most important of those rituals is breakfast. Or maybe, more accurately: breakfast time.

My morning schedule:

6:00am: Wake-up. I don’t have to be anywhere until 9:00.

6:01am: in the kitchen making my iced coffee. No the weather outside does not matter.

6:01-6:05 am: I put the TV on and wait to hear the kettle rumble then chirp.

For the next hour I sit and enjoy my coffee until it’s time for the swish of reality to set in and my day has to start. It doesn’t matter what day it is or what it has in store for me, it always starts with my coffee and an hour to enjoy it.

I’ve tried it other ways. Waking up at a reasonable time, just enough to get ready and chug a mug before rushing out the door. On those days, anxiety found the room to sneak in. Maybe in the minutes I was running from one task to another, forgetting to focus on anything. Maybe through the floorboards, through the soles of my feet, up through my legs before trucking through my chest. It’s almost as if it’s forcing me to pause, take stock of my headspace before moving on, or giving me some quiet before the storm. “If you won’t, I’ll make sure you do,” it barks.

So while this blog is about food, on most days, it’s more so about how I found it. How family recipes guided my cooking journey, but how they’re more than just heirlooms. Those recipes, the act of cooking is another one of those things, like my mornings, that calm the anxiety. The act of taking stock of the things in my pantry and from them, carving out something to put on a plate is comforting.

So welcome to Breakfast with Myself. It’s not just a breakfast, it’s not just coffee, it’s not just food, it’s not just family, it’s not just cooking. It’s all of those things, but it’s more. It’s ritual.

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