Breakfast Sandwich

O breakfast sandwich, you sweetly seasoned scrumptious snack. O breakfast sandwich, you mouthwateringly mighty morsel. O breakfast sandwich, you tasteful treat. You complete me, breakfast sandwich. Who will I turn to for powering through my three-hour-long zoom at 8 a.m.? Coffee bears not your flavorful combinations of tender egg and meaty sausage, nor your rejuvenating caloric strength. Pancakes, while tantalizing, bear not your combination of protein-packed goodness and heavenly aura. Pancakes require syrup; breakfast sandwich, you stand alone on a hill, freed from the chains of complimentary condiments, bun toasty but unbowed. Oatmeal is mush. Hashbrowns have a certain appeal yet function better as a side, like a short guy at Roscoe’s wearing flannel next to his taller, more masculine friend. Fruit and salad are palatable options, but sadly I am not a rabbit and must start my day with real food.
O breakfast sandwich, you are my one and only, ever dependable, my saving grace. It hasn’t been the same since you left. Shuffling through the mainline at 7:30, surrounded by athletes with wet hair and downcast eyes, has left a bad taste in my mouth. O breakfast sandwich, you are my siren song, my call to action, the perfect paramour for those morning classes that exist outside the vacuum of time and space. Nothing else excites my taste buds just so, and there is nothing that can replace you (for this, breakfast burrito, I speak directly to thee: don’t even try it. Your lack of crunch is a pale imitation of greatness akin to me dressing up as Michael Jordan for Halloween. It’s just not meant to be). Breakfast sandwich, you are unique, inimitable, incomparable, sui generis, the cream of the crop. Your flaky bun pierces my taste buds like a diamond cuts through butter. Your cheese, half-melted and drizzled down the sides of the tinfoil, perfectly accentuates the main course like a dreadfully delicious hors d’oeuvre. Your sausage, thinner yet more flavorful than any food item prepared in a tub has the right to be, is the perfect complement to the main ingredient, the big kahuna, the coup de gras: the egg. Your egg smashes all conception of goodness, a miraculous marvel dreamed into existence, a truly immaculate entity.
Other breakfast foods crash into existence, like two senior football players taking up the entire sidewalk. They are cocky; you, breakfast sandwich, are confident. You creep delicately into my mouth, enveloping my taste buds, confiding in me that my day will go alright. You’re perfect; you’re the girl next door who just happens to be a supermodel.
O Luther, bring back grab n’ go breakfast. Bring back the breakfast sandwich.

Opinions expressed in columns and letters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Chips or organizations with which the author(s) are associated.

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