“Marmalade, I like marmalade,” he mutters as he takes the half-empty jar (yes, he’s that kind of guy) off the shelf in the rustic cupboard. His hands are already full, as he already collected bread and three eggs from other shelves in other cupboards.
He lights the small blue flame of the stove, finds a clean pan and he gets to work. Soon enough, melted butter sizzles on the hot metallic surface that has seen hundreds of eggs before and will see even more of them in the future.
While breaking the eggs, he recalls other such occasions. “Breakfast in
As a roadie for a famous band, he seldom has time to eat lunch, for at that time of day the band is either on the move or preparing for a show, and he never eats dinner, for at that time of day the band is either performing or throwing a party no Grand Vizier would be ashamed of. It is a hectic life, and in such hectic conditions it would be impossible to survive without something to hold on to, and Alan has his breakfast ritual.
“Macrobiotic stuff,” he mutters again and shakes his head, baffled by the life-style of the rich and successful. “Macrobiotic stuff…”
He remembers the small piece of bacon still left in the fridge, and he retrieves it with great enthusiasm, for he likes bacon even more than he likes marmalade. He puts the two slices in the center of the pan and watches them curl and sweat fat as the fry in the butter.
In the meantime, he opens the box of cereal and he pours the crispy golden delicatessens in a bowl full of milk he prepared earlier. This he eats as if he had never eaten before, gulping and swallowing spoonfuls, and soon he throws the silver spoon back into a completely empty bowl. The bacon is done and he picks it up with a fork and puts it on a dirty plate he didn’t have time to clean since the day before yesterday. Then he moves on to preparing the eggs, pouring them into the pan full of half-burnt fat. This may not be a healthy breakfast, but at least it isn’t that macrobiotic stuff.
He drinks some orange juice and then he spreads a thick layer of butter and marmalade on two big loafs of bread. “Marmalade, I like marmalade,” he mutters again. He eats it with one hand, stirring the eggs with the other. Then he prepares two toasts and eats them with the eggs. It tastes better than any room service crap, for it was prepared with love and patience, and also the pressing knowledge that Alan won’t be eating anything else until six o’clock tomorrow.
Rise and shine.
Morning glory.
It took longer than usual today, so he washes the dishes in haste, leaving the knife, fork, and bowl unwashed but still fit for tomorrow’s duty. As he leaves the kitchen, he leaves three things behind: the echo of the doors banging as he shut them hastily, the smells and fumes of cooking, and a dripping tap that goes on and on, forever dripping small drips of water into the sink.
Until someone removes the stylus from the album.
2 comments:
A very tasty read, and here's proof:
My calorie-counting taste buds threatened to riot.
But write some oatmeal into Alan's diet;
His cholesterol is surely through the roof.
I'm sure he burns it all when carrying Mr. Floyd's Marshall amps.
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