Breakfast or dinner

I rush back to Flagstaff after checkout, and of course, I’m still going to eat. Breakfast called, and I answered—or I should say The Toasted Owl answered. I was pleasantly surprised, not sure why, but I can’t help thinking that most breakfast places have a generic menu, and the thought of paying for eggs and sausage just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It’s simply that when I think of breakfast foods, most of the time it’s greasy, buttery food I can make myself (I say that as I don’t live in a van). The plop of an egg on an oiled pan, the sizzling of a finger-sized sausage blackening on the pan next to the egg, which you realize is now overcooked because you forgot to turn the heat down and turned your back on it for 23 seconds. Wait! The coffee is brewing, and that's actually your favorite part about breakfast, so you get your mug out. You typically drink it black, but this morning—well, this morning is a special occasion—so you drizzle some honey on the inside of the mug and a dash of turmeric powder (you forget the black pepper, so the turmeric is useless). You scoop your egg up with the spatula that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in ages and drop it on a paper plate, then you throw the sausage next to the egg straight from the pan. You pour your coffee and mix. Hot sauce everywhere: on the egg, the sausage—the coffee—just kidding, not the sausage, just kidding again, not the coffee. Come on, you really thought, huh? You finish in under 5 minutes. Still hungry, but the laziness and the dread of doing it all over keep you from making more. You still have coffee, so you’re okay. It's 8 PM. You’re making breakfast at night. The true spirit of rebellion wafts over the house. Life is not too shabby.