This has gotten out of hand, people

I’m not sure what’s worst about this box of pumpkin spice Cheerios. Is it that all foods in America are adulterated with pumpkin spice starting in August these days? The Starbucksification of every meal of the day? Or is it the fact that it would be really easy to make your own pumpkin spice breakfast cereal by just sprinkling some cinnamon and nutmeg on it before pouring the milk?

Oh, the humanity.

(Thank you, Christopher, for the photo.)

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Breakfast mush

My facebook friend Susan knows from good food. Like, she really knows from good food. But she also gets that sometimes food is not about how it looks. Like this post bike ride breakfast mush I’ll let her describe:

Bad food that tastes so good. Because. Sustenance. Terrible plating makes it taste even better. Scrambled Farm eggs (cooked slowly following the French method), crappy supermarket chorizo, and hash brown cooked rendered chorizo fat.

What makes this a standout dish is the technique — scrambling the eggs gently, only to throttle them with a meaty, fatty, goopy topping. Also, that it looks terrible, but probably tastes amazing.

A lot of the people I ask to contribute hesitate. “But it was really good,” they say, “even if it looked ugly!” That’s the point. Food gone wrong is often very, very right.

Porridge au caramel

If there is one thing I’m the perverse master of, it’s doing strange things to leftovers. We often have leftover oat porridge from breakfast, and it gets sort of dry and hard and gross. This happened a few weeks ago. So what did I do? Melted a lot of butter in a cast iron pan, fried the porridge in a big cake, and once it was browned on both sides, drizzled it with salted caramel sauce I bought in Paris.

Which kind of shows you what calorie counting for a few days will do to a woman.

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Simit burn

I was so delighted to find a good Turkish market — at last! — and one that is not too far away at that. With well-priced cilantro and gorgeous lambchops and… simit, the wonderful Turkish sesame rings. Simit, the love of my Berlin years. Simit, the breakfast addiction. Simit, one of my son’s first words.

So of course I bought three, we ate two immediately, and the next morning I went to toast the third one under the broiler. Only I turned on the broiler too high, and I forgot about the simit, and before I knew it the kitchen smelled of something burning.

It was a tragedy.

Later that day, my husband was found scraping the burnt crust off the simit so he could eat what was still edible.

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