Every once in a while I feel inexplicably compelled to confess to something that’s bound to make all six of the people who read this blog hate me. Today’s just such a day; today I will confess to hating breakfast for dinner.
I realize that not wanting to have pancakes and syrup instead of, say, Chicken Cordon Bleu is equivalent in its anti-American-ness to say, something like stating “that Nikita Khruschev, he sure was a frood with a lot of good ideas,” or hating Law & Order. But there are things that are right and things that are wrong, and, just like it’s wrong to wear denim on denim (ed. note: not anymore!); one of those is having breakfast for dinner.
I’ve always felt this way. There’s a legend, when I was about 9, of a time when I was left with a family friend’s teenaged boy and girl; I asked them for dinner, and out came a bowl of Rice Krispies. Naturally, I broke into tears and was inconsolable until I was allowed to play in front of the TV with my new Space Shuttle toy (broke its landing gear on the deep-pile orange shag carpet, by the way).
When my friends — or, worse, the national media — suggest breakfast for dinner, they get to see me look dejected and throw in a gag for drama’s sake. Sorry to deprive you of all of that delicious syrup, but it just sounds so… awful. Don’t you want some savory in the evening?
Although, I’ll allow, butter and bacon both are good at any meal.