When I was a youth, I hated breakfast. I don’t know if it was because I hadn’t tasted the glorious taste of coffee yet (that was at age 15 and I haven’t gone a single day since without it, save a few weeks early in my pregnancy when I couldn’t stomach it but I’d rather not talk about those dark, caffeine-free days), or because I never knew the magic that is a soft scramble or over-easy egg, or because I had one too many run-ins with those chewy chocolate chip granola bars that, at the time, I sort of liked but now I can’t really stand because I’m a food blogger/food snob and I need me only homemade granola bars, thankyouverymuch.
Now that I’m old and wise (er, older and wiser), breakfast has become my favorite meal of the day. I crave it before I go to bed at night. I dream of it in my sleep. I plan my breakfasts days in advance with great zeal — not even kidding. And that’s why I was extra-excited about my breakfast plans this week: Because this week, every breakfast is a French toast bagel. (!!!)51