While more than a bit of my childhood was spent starting the day with a bowl of cereal, or whatever my mother might have made for breakfast, I find it curious that I’ve never really been a breakfast person.

Personally, I’m inclined to believe it owes to time more than anything else. I’ve no qualms with what breakfast tends to look like in America, nor with dinner leftovers or the like. Left to my own devices, I will usually have a small breakfast. During the weak: this often takes the shape of a small granola bar. During the weekend: I might make something more substantial but may skip breakfast altogether.

What I’ve generally found, is that I’m not hungry enough for a sizable meal in the morning. By the time that I am, I may as well wait for lunch. Which makes sense to me, really.  When I need to be somewhere: the window between getting out of bed, getting cleaned up, and on the road, is short enough that my stomach is still snoring. By the time the day is underway: there is no convenient stopping to eat breakfast. Thus my choices for breakfast are usually intended to tide me over until lunch is approaching, or are as much for sharing with the dogs as it is for myself.

Now, if I tended to get up at the crack of dawn: instead of somewhere between what I define as normal, and what I determine is necessary, that would probably be different.