Fat butter, man. Slap a pat of it on some toast. In America, we call that breakfast, I can’t speak for other places. I assume that in Islandia, a made up country, they put grape jelly on their toast, that sounds alright, I will visit there some day in my dreams.
“Come, sit!” someone will say to me. I’ll sit, and we’ll feast on freshly baked loaves of bread, churned butter, delicious grape jellies and other fruits candied. “Yes, yes,” I’ll say. “Line up these plates, let us have a delightful time, as we sip coffee and drink liquids, and chew our buttered bread.”
I can’t think of just me. “Good morning!”
“Good morning, sir.” We’re all eating, this food’s coming from somewhere, and we’re grateful. Maybe someone’s making it, or maybe it was a group effort. That’s usually the easiest way to deal with, everybody cooks, everybody serves, but if you show up later than that, please, by all means, sit and enjoy, that’s why we all put it there.
It was for that.