How to eat breakfast is not an easy question.

Different for everyone, you know.

I have gone through phases on the breakfast ritual as time has gone by:

The issue is, I am nearly always in a hurry at the beginning of the day.

If time allows, however, there is nothing like a leisurely, sit-down, all-you-can-eat, meandering of bacon, eggs, grits, pancakes, hash-browns, coffee, juice, and the like.

Aside from the drugs, the writer Hunter S. Thompson had the best quote on breakfast you can find.

He said:

Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert… Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music… All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.