I have no idea how long my alarm actually ran without waking me this morning, only that it managed to slip its way into my dreams, the contents of which now elude me save for the wave-like sound of the alarm.
Mornings I am not a fan of, and yet every time I’m up at an ungodly hour (as a nite owl that means anything before 8, but especially before 7) and on the road I’m able to appreciate the emptiness of the world at dawn. Especially on a Sunday. Ain’t none of you fuckers up yet.
For instance: it just took about 35 minutes to drive from West Contra Costa County to SFO. I don’t even want to think about how long it would normally take.
Now, after having dropped off my mother for a flight back east, I’m huddled in a Panera Bread drinking weak coffee and fighting the urge to stuff one of their pastries down my gullet. Luckily for me I know just how hideously dry the Panera pastry is. They look great, but invariably have the texture profile of chalk.
This tends to be true of most pastries that look fantastic in the case: all the sugar that goes into creating the ideal look translates into a dry mouth feel. When you’ve had the Platonic ideal of morning buns (Commissary LA), donuts (Doughnut Plant NYC), and scones (LaMill Coffee circa 2012) you know its not worth wasting your time with cakey blandness.
(Yeah, it’s going to be a fight today. I can feel it.)