Wakefield

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  “In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth, of a man—let us call him Wakefield—who absented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on record of marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretense of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled...

The Best Part Of The Day

Some folks are morning folks. Others are "owls," the night-time folks. I'd like to think I'm a morning person because the evening comes on real fast for me nowadays. If I make it past 10:30 p.m., something's wrong. Know what I mean?

Don't get me wrong--I don't exactly bounce out of bed first thing, but the morning seems to be the best part of the day for me. As long as I have one or more of the following (I really don't care "when" during the day), I'll be fine:
  • Coffee
  • Eggs
  • Bacon and/or Sausage
  • Tortillas and/or Biscuits
  • Cheese (optional)
So for me, the best part of the day is when breakfast is served. Does that make me a morning person? Not necessarily. Just give me breakfast and everything'll be alright. 


I blame the Burrito Lady. If you don't know who the Burrito Lady is (we dubbed her "Mother Chorizo") then you ain't lived. Every day these local vendors would stop by the store selling fresh, hot, home-made burritos. Mother Chorizo was probably the best. She came to the back door of the place I worked, her grandson carrying an Igloo cooler filled with home-made breakfast burritos: scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon with potato and some jalapeno and the right sprinkling of cheese mixed in, all wrapped up in a fresh flour tortilla. Piping hot. For a buck, there was no better way to start the day. 

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