Good Morning Beautiful: Why Midweek Breakfast Meet-ups Are Way Better than Lunch Dates

Expect problems and eat them for breakfast. - Algred A. Montapert 

Post dedicated to my own bodacious breakfast babe, KK.

Despite how consciously I attempt to leave the word 'busy' out of my vocabulary in favor of more meaningful reasons I can't commit to this or that, the fact remains, as a society we're all pretty damn busy. Our schedules are evolving faster than ever before as they travel with us in our pockets and are pliable at all times. We're accessible 24/7 via text, Whatsapp, Facebook messenger, Snapchat, Instagram, FaceTime, Hangouts or, if it's your grandma trying to set plans, by phone.  We're able to update our shared calendars at a whim with ease. The peppered, blocky look of my week on Monday is unrecognizable by Wednesday morning. When you aren't supposed to say 'no' to a client who wants to meet from 11:30 to 1:00 often you're forgoing social luncheons in favor of attempting to silently sip soup between mutings on yet another status meeting conference call from hell. Cue someone putting the whole call on hold so we're forced into silent appreciation of the latest muzak du jour. At least then I can slurp uninterrupted for a spell.

But what if you want to chat with your fav co-worker over a Monday macaroni or meet up with an IRL friend to gossip about your coworkers over a Tuesday tuna melt? Dining together, at the ancient level, was a matter of survival so it's no wonder in modern society, breaking bread with other human beings is such a noble and revered activity.

Never one to give up when facing an injustice, I've found a remedy that works for me and thwarts my lack of midday freedom.
The Breakfast Date. Bestie Breakfast. Bruh-kfest. Breckie with Bae...

The Heart of a Halophile

The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea. Isak Dinesen

My first order of business in starting a blog, was deciding how I wanted to introduce myself and this little corner of the internet. A few things came to mind. Three things to be exact. Butter, eggs and salt. The three items that are always overstocked in my home kitchen. The three items for which, if the par falls below acceptable levels, or gasp, falls to empty I feel a startling stagnation building around the fridge and pantry; one that I cannot ignore and remedy as quickly as possible.

Of the three, salt is my most loyal and accommodating friend and the one of which I've never run out. You can find salt in my kitchen in various locations and containers. There are zip-top baggies in drawers, pinch bowls of different shapes and colors dotting numerous flat surfaces, course salt rocks in grinders, flaky delicate snowflake salt in the salt pig, smoked in tins, blackened in pouches, pink, flavored, truffled and rare in tubes and jars nestled between thyme and cayenne. The current count of different kinds of salt in my house, tips the scale at 11. In past centuries this would have made me rich or at the very least admired.