Lord Emsworth and I

Breakfasting is rather an art I feel. It's of course a cliche that the first meal of the day is the most important, setting one up nutritionally and spiritually for the next 14 or 15 hours. Over the last week or so I've enjoyed very contrasting ways to break my fast. During our recent stay at my father's house it was variations on the grilled platter - sausages, bacon, black pudding, toast, eggs etc -  that saw my weight rise and energy fall. I love all of those items, but perhaps once a week (or more sensibly once a fortnight) suffices to have them all together.

By way of contrast I feel full of beans (though they are not on the menu) after our habitual start to the day of strong (real) coffee, a homemade smoothie, and toast and marmelade or poached egg. Lord Emsworth, from what one can gather from the Blandings novels fared best on Dover sole, not something I've ever eaten before noon. We have in common, however, that something light and carefully chosen does make one feel at ease with the world. And of course we are both sound on pigs.

There is no 'right' breakfast in terms of a set menu. I've eaten curry in India and congee in Indonesia, pastry or rolls and coffee in the USA and France, steak in South Africa, black bread and blacker tea in the USSR, and felt good after all of them because the food satisfied not just my thirst and hunger but also a feeling of belonging and of well-being. How the kids I sometimes see eating crisps and drinking Red Bull on the way to school must feel I can only imagine. Not, sadly, important enough for their parents to have provided something more beneficial.

A lot of schools now are offering breakfasts to pupils, and it's not just the under-privileged who maybe need this - I know of a kid at a fee-paying establishment where it's not lack of money but parental laziness that sees him reportedly start his day more often than not on an empty stomach. That is sad in at least two ways - for his educational performance, but also for the missed moment of family bonding, of contentment and care that a simple breakfast can give.

It's a missed moment of culinary art too. Preparing the perfect poached egg is simple but rewarding - water barely simmering, a splash of vinegar because fresh eggs (as they should be, and with our own chickens are here) tend to disintegrate without it, eggs carefully broken and slipped into the water (I don't see the point of the cheffy whirlpool thing), drained and en-toasted when the yolks are runny and the whites soft but formed - it's a skilful ritual worth the effort.