Its Super Tuesday, that day when the majority of States chose their political candidate for President.
What would be the perfect breakfast for this monumental occasion. Something that would provide all the energy needed to get through this day and the strain of casting a ballot.
To begin with, Eggs, that ” box without hinges, lid, or lock with golden treasure contained” like a promise, unseen but discribed over and over in airy flowery speech or bombastic podium pounding screech. The egg: A promise, that can only be seen, once broken.
To hide this broken promise, you must pile on the pork, pork in every consevable way to appeal to the majority of a fickle crowd. Bacon, ham, sausage, every consevable way you can present that pork needs to be piled on to the plate, so everyone wants a taste.
But like any good political campaign, you must also appeal to the minorities, a slice of tomato, to symbolize your diversity towards colour, and to draw the attention away from the white bread that is sitting beside the plate waiting its turn.
Perhaps some onion, to blame for the tears, as your candidate flounders and begins their long journey into the fog of obscurity, lost from sight, then quickly lost from history as the winner emerges in a bright tangy flash, like mustard glittering from its perch at the top of the pork, ready to add their own flavour to the pork products you so willingly consume.
Feeling full, sated, and justified in your breakfast choice, you are now ready to face the day, until the man in the odd suit approaches the table with your extravagant bill.
The meal you were promised, may have looked great, may have tasted great, but your host neglected to mention, that this is not a free meal, you personally are responsible for the bill.