Back when I was a well-endowed six year old with few culinary sensibilities, my ideal breakfast was anything with a syrup slather — pine-nut waffles, three-day-old refrigerated McDonalds pancakes, banana splits, oatmeal with chopped bacon, orange juice from concentrate (with a shot of syrup!). And not that hipster-ass maple syrup bullshit, mind you; I wanted my morning meals oozing with two cups of thrice refined sugar per serving.

When I was twelve and on an efficiency and nutritional health kick, I discovered breakfast shakes. Milkshakes for breakfast!?! Sounds like a bit of harpsichord heaven to me. Of course, I had to balance out the milkshakes with a mouth stuffing of Big League Chew, the timeless Breakfast Food of Champions. It is the only gum you should swallow, you know?

I evolved into manhood at 26 when I moved to Seattle and discovered the regionally famous twelve egg omelet at the Hurricane Cafe. Because, as you all know, I am a large man — the size of two of you ducktaped together (I sometimes wear a car tire as a necklace) — and I can muscle up all the protein packed gelatinous aborted chicken babies you can slurp down my throat. The Hurricaine is marvelous in theory: open 24 hours, pinball galore, enough hash-browns to fill your bathtub. In practice, however, I’ve never been there.

But it wasn’t until yesterday that I arrived at true wisdom. I was on the treadmill at my gym and in life — there are LCD TVs attached to each of the machines. As per norm, I walked three miles per hour and watched the Food Network. I stared mesmerizingly at a woman on the TV screen named Paula as she designed and consumed The Lady’s Brunch Burger, an absolute zero Holy Grail archetype of perfection, serenity and the sublime: glazed doughnut bun, hamburger patty, fried eggs and sizzling bacon. Read the recipe here. Eat your heart out, baby! And I would love to hear from our esteemed Mindflowers readers about their personal paths to breakfast enlightenment.

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