I used to. Sunday mornings were reserved for a big breakfast that started around 0830 and often turned into brunch in the garden under the mango tree. My wife and I were both amateur cooks and we enjoyed preparing Sunday breakfasts together, then just lingering in the garden reading the papers.
Steak and eggs, followed by a stack of pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup. A big glass of cold milk, a big glass of ice-cold orange juice and endless coffee. It was my break from a week of starting my days with one type of porridge or another. Afterwards, I would linger and read the local Sunday paper and then start on the New York Times Sunday Edition and Sweden’s national Dagens Nyheter Sunday edition from the previous week, if we could get it. Then, after sufficient coffee I would wash the ink off my hands and take an afternoon ride on the bike trail until dinner. That was my breakfast.
Nowadays, I wake up around 0500, have coffee, feed the animals, milk the goats, collect the eggs, check the water. Then wash up, have some porridge or eggs and lamb with a big glass of cold goat milk, or fishhead soup with hot bread and butter, some mango or papaya juice, more coffee, pack my lunch and I’m off on my second set of rounds for the day. I often spend Sunday afternoons cooking in order that I can have these complete meals and combinations thereof throughout the week. I’m a big eater, but I also expend a lot of physical energy. It’s a good life.