WHY BREAKFAST IN BED IS NOT FUN AT ALL
Say wine, snacks or haute cuisine and the gourmands at online food magazine FavorFlav know where to drink, how to eat it and what to cook. This time our cheffies serve you: why breakfast in bed is not fun at all.
Mother's Day.
I can easily imagine that mothers in the Netherlands were tossing and turning in bed from six o'clock today, because: what kind of physical and mental damage are they inflicting in the kitchen? At a way too early hour, you have to lie neatly dressed under those scorching hot blankets, because child or children (whom you probably made yourself but for whom you are at least responsible because they are in your house) are standing by your bed with breakfast. The ultimate gesture of thanks apparently, for those other three hundred-something days. There is just one problem: breakfast in bed is hell.
It could have been so nice
You are lying a bit half propped up on your elbow at the moment that plate or tray comes in (but who has a tray these days?). Then you just have to hope that the freshly squeezed juice (which is sticking to the ceiling of your kitchen downstairs) is stable and doesn’t immediately spill over your freshly washed sheets, because the little one trips over a slipper or their own feet. At the sight of what you are about to eat, you suddenly think back to that one chef you once made out with in an alley and what he/she is making today. It could have been so nice.
The tray is carefully slid onto your belly, so far so good and you look at that large mug at the back right with black contents. Should I take a sip already? At that moment, the figures at your bed also decide they want a place on the sheet and you have to grab all the drinks and food to ensure that it doesn’t get catapulted across the bedroom. The hot liquid spills over the edge and you do your best not to curse and keep looking with a serene Mother Teresa smile at the crowd that is now pinching your left foot and forearm.
In the Bermuda Triangle
With a bit of luck, you get fresh strawberries with quark, because that doesn’t spill over the edge and cornflakes with milk do, and of course the famous croissant. Of which you already know that two days later you will still be picking at a piece of your arm in the bathroom trying to remember what it was again. Croissants splinter when you just look at them and immediately disappear into the Bermuda Triangle between duvet and décolletage, even if you haven’t touched them yet, only to resurface randomly somewhere around your navel or big toe. This can be weeks and laundry cycles later (just like with popcorn, but that’s a whole different matter).
Picking at pieces of croissant
Meanwhile, you hear all sorts of rumbling (child) bellies while you eat alone, because more wouldn’t fit on that damn tray. Which means you end up alone in bed halfway through breakfast, the blood slowly flowing back to your limbs and you have to figure out how to get yourself and all that food out of bed. Which is an impossible task, so you take another sip of coffee while trying to knock a piece of croissant off the blanket.
Coffee in bed is, by the way, divine. You can bring me coffee in bed at any time of the day, as long as I’m in bed of course, but if you tell me in time, I will voluntarily lie back in bed to drink coffee there. I know people who get coffee in bed every day. Unfortunately, I only get that on vacation. But one thing is for sure from now on: I can shove that breakfast in bed where the sun doesn’t shine.
Happy Mother’s Day y’all.
