Word: breakfasting
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...ready to dress him. In his column in the China Daily, Xu Yihe writes disapprovingly of Jiajia, a friend's pampered daughter who barely budges to prepare for school in the morning. While Jiajia sits on her bed, says Xu, "her mother combs her hair, her grandmother feeds her breakfast, her grandfather is under the table putting her shoes on, and her father is getting her satchel ready." Single children are well aware of their special status. Said one: "I ride on Daddy's shoulders and ask my parents to make a circle with their arms. Then...
...there is no sign of habitation. Even the armadillos are dead. The highway flies over Jacksonville and descends in the low salt marshes of Georgia. Savannah, by some gracious concession of the engineers, is only 14 miles away, a snoozing 19th century time capsule. At Mrs. Wilkes' famous boardinghouse, breakfast is served on 13 platters, and a man at the table says he works on the railroad...
...tuna casserole), to Ronald Reagan (hamburger soup, roast-beef hash and, in more sophisticated moments, the Italian veal-shank dish called osso buco). Haller presents some macabre juxtapositions of historic events with personal reminiscences. To get through his difficult final hours in the White House, Richard Nixon requested a breakfast more substantial than his usual wheat germ and coffee. Haller rustled up corned-beef hash with a poached egg. Nixon ate it in his favorite Lincoln Sitting Room, then signed the resignation handed to him by Alexander Haig...
...serious often descends into the sentimental and the humorous into the cute. One moment, the family's house is burned to the ground, forcing them to move in with mother's grandparents. But no sooner are they there then Grandpa's comic zaniness changes the mood, as he interrupts breakfast on the veranda to shoot at a rat in his vegetable garden. The scene is absurd enough to make a Scrooge laugh, but it hangs loosely between serious scenes of death and destruction...
DAWN is rolling in like vicious thunder and so are we, floating at speed across the Nevada wastes with a half forgotten sense of purpose burning in our empty stomachs like the remnants of the whisky we had for breakfast--"Pills, pills," one of the Ginsburgs is yelling through the roar of the wind, and he's got a fistful of them, twisting and dancing in the backseat of the Thunderbird convertible, tears of madness streaming down his cheeks and down onto his black pinstripe suit--the law professor, I think, the other Ginsburg--or is it Ginsberg?--Ginsbirg?--homonymous...