my tuppence (two)

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I think, (said with one eyebrow cocked and an obvious degree of skepticism on my face), this will work. Being something of a rookie in Blogburg, USA, I'll keep this short and to the point.

I wish to say very little, but before I do even that, I will qualify the following statement with these few short sentiments:
Kansas City is pretty, I mean really pretty. Think Shirley Temple with bricks.
It is a gorgeous downtown vista. Where red bricks fail, sandy stone steps in and gives us grand monuments such as City Hall, The Liberty Memorial, and Union Station. Bartle Hall is a boomer, as is the Federal Court House, and the two professional sports stadiums which play home to the much-loved Chiefs, and the ... uh, Royals.

It's a neat place, full of neat people, and a Tommy's ravioli simply to die for.
But with every new day, and I cannot fault the weather here, with every new dawn come's breakfast.

The city retains much of its "old world" charm, its metropolitan appeal, but in the morning, as in many of the world's great cities, sunlight exposes one of its most insidious vices.
LA has its smog, Tokyo got up several hours before (if it ever went to bed), and Christchurch its frosts.
In Kansas City, the peril is altogether more pervasive. Whereas the smog lingers above the offices and homes of Los Angelites, and suburban Tokyo clicks into first gear largely unaware of the frenetic pace of its intellectual engine room, Kansas City's vice cuts to the heart of the home, and is not one negated by warm mittens and a scarf - as is the case in Christchurch.

Kansas City awakens to ... biscuits and gravy.

Now I have little against either biscuits or gravy, I mean Cameo Cremes and a dripping leg of roast lamb constitute the edible equivalent of an Oscar. Nor do I have major gripes with KC as a whole. But, and at the risk of offending some of the nicest people outside of NZ, biscuits and gravy has to stop.

I don't know about you world, but when I wake up I think of visiting the toilet, brushing my teeth, and attacking the shower. I think of toast, and of juice and fresh fruit. I think of birds singing, loved ones yawning, and much-anticipated radio blips and bleeps on the hour (every hour).

I have never, in my life, in a squillion years thought of grabbing a coupla hundred grams of minced sausage, frying it in its own filth until you have something resembling watery meat soup, throwing in some flour, waiting for it burp and bubble like an asthmatic Rotorua mud-pool, adding milk and pouring it over a perfectly good scone.

No sir indeed.

If you wake up angry, sick, and ultimately disenchanted with world affairs then head straight for the freezer and the frying pan because I guarantee your day's gonna perk up no end after some "biscuits and gravy" - it simply cannot get any worse.

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Comments

[Show Me MO]

biscuits and gravy
I have met great challenges in my life, but none greater than stomaching biscuits and gracy (Mahatma Gandhi)

[Brock]

Complaints about our vittles?
This attack on our beloved breakfast would not seem so bad if it hadn't come from the country whose gift to the breakfast world was... Marmite. Glad to hear the trip is going well so far, and am looking forward to catching up this weekend.