My father has the strictest morning routine I have ever seen. He wakes up at 6:30 AM, goes for a 45-minute walk, takes a shower, eats his breakfast and he’s on his way to work at 8:00 AM sharp. This has been his routine for as long as I can remember. Stricter than his morning routine is the list of things he eats at breakfast. A slice of toasted bread, green and black olives (four of each), a thin slice of Gruyere, a thick slice of white cheese (rest of the world calls it Feta cheese), a teaspoon of Swiss honey, tea with lemon (sweetened by the remnants of honey left on the teaspoon) and a small bowl of cherry tomatoes, which are peeled by my unbelievably patient mother. One would assume that his son would have acquired a somewhat similar breakfast habit.
I am a terrible son. I watch, but not learn. I don’t eat anything when I wake up. I go straight to the coffee machine and watch the walls while the drips fill the pot. Give me a plate full of crepes stuffed with chocolate gelato and smeared with dulce de leche and I’ll just stare at it with an empty look. I might shrug, too.
