The sun is peeking a bit out of the clouds so the day is getting brighter. It’s warm, already 75°, and a bit humid. I may have a deck day today.

My usual Sunday breakfast was a bit humdrum. The choices never change, but I still look at the menu expecting a culinary miracle. Today I went with an omelet with Swiss cheese and linguica. I found it boring, further proof that breakfast lacks excitement. It is the only meal of the day with a minimum selection of food. You can eat anything you want for lunch and dinner, but for breakfast, tradition necessitates a narrow variety. I have sometimes strayed from the straight and narrow and eaten pizza, the square slices the Italian bakeries sell. Once I remember finishing left-over fried rice and ribs but I had a sense of guilt. I have eaten eggs in every configuration, but there is only so much you can do with an egg. When I was in England, they added a grilled tomato which did nothing for me, and I won’t even mention English bacon or sausages. One time I was served baked beans, and I’m still not over that this many years later. The filled plate hangs in my mind like a nightmare that still haunts me when I start to fall asleep.

In Ghana, after a few mornings of tasteless eggs with a strange look about them, I bought fruit and had the kitchen make me a fruit salad each morning. It came with toast and margarine, Nescafe instant coffee and evaporated mik. Butter is rare. It has to be imported. The best breakfast I remember was in Morocco with strong, dark coffee, fresh croissants and rolls, amlou, yogurt, assorted jams and a view of the Atlas Mountains with their tips covered in snow.

My father hated breakfast in Europe. He wanted his eggs and his bacon. Instead he found cheese, cold cuts and assorted breads. My mother and I loved those breakfasts, but we were far more like sea gulls, content with anything, than my father. I do remember one morning in Holland. There, on the table, sitting proudly in a rooster cup was an egg. My father was delighted at the thought of a soft boiled egg. He took his knife and carefully tapped the top. Nothing happened. He tapped again. Same thing-nothing happened. The third time he tapped the shell cracked all over. The egg was hard boiled. I’ll never forget the disappointment on my father’s face.