I didn’t grow up in a family where we ate breakfast – not in the traditional sense, anyway. It was both a requirement and an afterthought: a stop at the gas station for a few packaged muffins or at the Cuban bakery for a ham croqueta on a roll, often eaten in my father’s car on the way home. ‘school. But breakfast still managed to present its own kind of thrill, a moment to bond with my dad when he was most pressed for time.
Now, as an adult, I’m a full-fledged breakfast enthusiast, someone who whips up a warming bowl of oatmeal at the outrageous hour of 2 p.m.—and loves it. All this to say that being a breakfast addict has no rhyme, time or reason: it’s a spirit, a feeling.