A Georgian breakfast

By Sarah Tereniak
Collegian Staff
October 4, 2006

My alarm buzzes furiously at 7:45 a.m. on a Monday morning. Oh, excellent. It’s Monday, I have a 9 am class, and no time to both shower and go to Treetops for breakfast. A triple whammy.

I open my eyes a crack. They’re bleary from sleep and sensitive to the early morning light. I groan, mutter an expletive and shove myself upright to turn off the alarm. Once I’m sitting up, however, I’m stunned to note that there’s a person perched on the end of my bed. A man. A deliciously good-looking man.

George Clooney.

The Most Perfect Man in the Universe, an official title (note the capitalization), dressed casually in jeans, a black T-shirt and a black blazer, smiles winningly and shuts off my alarm. I melt a little and self-consciously smooth my bed hair with the palms of my hands.

“What are you doing here?” I ask disbelievingly. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

He smiles again and holds up a spatula. It’s only then that I notice the huge stove sitting in front of my dresser in the corner of my dorm room. A delicious scent is wafting through the room, and I’m instantly starving.

“I’m making you breakfast,” George says, and he smiles again. “You can’t learn if you’re hungry. I’m making your favorite breakfast foods.” He leaves the room briefly, and I hear him opening the refrigerator that’s just outside my door. He returns bearing a carton of orange juice.

How does he know what my favorite breakfast foods are? I’m curious, and wonder if I’d ever stuck that on my Facebook somewhere (had the News Feed told the world?). But George simply grins knowingly and says nothing about it.

I lie back down in bed and doze for a few more minutes until I’m roused by a firm tug on the edge of my quilt. I open my eyes, see George standing next to the bed, and push myself upright.

In his hands, George grasps a large tray, topped with a number of large plates, a tall glass of orange juice and a small vase filled with cheerful little flowers. He sets it on my lap as I sit up, and I survey the contents of my breakfast. George really did make my favorite things: a mushroom and cheese omelet, rye toast with a thin layer of butter and home fries with ketchup.

I nearly weep at the sight of my lovingly prepared meal. I’ve never seen something so beautiful on a Monday morning before. Besides George Clooney, that is.

I look up to thank George for the amazing meal, but he’s vanished, as has the stove in the corner of my dorm room. I shrug and pick up my fork, betting that the omelet is as perfect as George is. Class can wait; heaven is now; breakfast, in a word, ideal.

tereniaks1@lasalle.edu