Almost Daily Cat Haiku

I also want snacks. I have not yet eaten breakfast. There is no reasonable explanation for why I haven’t, I think I’m just that lazy in the morning. A cup of coffee, a comfortable chair, and a cat in my lap; and the grumbly in my tumbly becomes white-noise. A background hum, harmonizing with the tinnitus.

My mug runs dry, however. And like a three legged stool, one missing support renders the structure unsound. The need for a caffeinated refill stirs my consciousness, and a subtle pang surfaces in reminder. As comfortable as I am, sandwiched between cushion and cat, there is a need for sustenance, an antimetaphorical hunger gnaws at me… metaphorically speaking.

My occupying feline, sensing my discomfort, rises and retreats, relinquishing their control of my movement. I also stand, and set forth upon the arduous journey to procure provisions. My hunter/gatherer instincts lead me far from the safety of the living room and into the kitchen, some nine paces east.

Veering from those pathways of easier travel, I forego the simplicity of a sugar laden breakfast ceral in favor of something approaching “healthy”. Staring into an open refrigerator, I ponder the complexities of a meal that requires actual cooking. My gaze lingers upon the cardboard carton of oviparious gifts collected from fowl afar and a borosilicate vessel holding the remnants of last night’s sautéed spinach, and my cobwebbed cognizance musters up an idea.

Eggs, of the chicken variety, vigorously beaten with chopped spinach, whipped into sizzling butter in a non-stick pan. Proteins coalesce into curd, a golden yellow speckled with vibrant green. The viscous liquid becomes a pliable solid. Cow’s milk, first spoiled and strained, salted and set upon a wooden shelf to mature, now itself a soft solid, is shredded and added to the culinary concoction. I lid the pan, exterminate the cerulean flames beneath the steel. Patience now. Let the residual heat continue it’s work. I take the idle time as a moment to assemble my prose.

Enough! Patience be damned. I uncover the cookware and gaze upon the florentine masterpiece before me. Cautiously, but quickly, I flip the omelet onto a plate. Sitting now, afore this sumptuous feast, I carve out a morsel. Custard-like texture, stringy with melted cheese, I lay the collop onto my tongue. Synapse fire like lightning as flavor engulfs my mouth.

Ok. That’s enough words. I’m gonna shovel the rest of this into my face-hole now.