Come Have Breakfast with Henry…What’s Your Go-To Breakfast Food?
If you’ve never shared breakfast with a donkey, let me tell you—it’s an experience. Around here, Henry the donkey is more than just part of the farm. He’s the self-appointed breakfast boss. Forget roosters crowing at sunrise—Henry’s bray echoes across the fields like an alarm clock that doesn’t have a snooze button. And if you think you can ignore him? Think again. He’ll stand outside the barn door, stomping a hoof, making it perfectly clear: breakfast time isn’t optional.
Henry’s personal breakfast menu is simple—hay, carrots, and the occasional stolen apple if I’m not paying attention. But the way he eats makes it feel like fine dining. He chews slowly, savoring every bite like a connoisseur at a fancy brunch. His ears flick back and forth as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra, and when he’s especially pleased, he lets out a soft, satisfied snort that honestly sounds like approval.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there with my mug of coffee, hair sticking up like I wrestled a chicken before sunrise, trying to decide what to eat for myself. Watching Henry enjoy breakfast so thoroughly always makes me pause. He never overthinks it—he just eats what he loves, when he loves it. I, on the other hand, treat breakfast like a multiple-choice test I didn’t study for.
Some mornings, I’m in a pancake mood. There’s nothing like the smell of butter sizzling on the griddle and syrup dripping down the stack. Other days, I reach for eggs—scrambled, fried, or in a sandwich so messy it requires three napkins and a sense of humor. And then there are those mornings when coffee is breakfast. You know the kind: you’re running late, your to-do list is longer than the pasture fence, and you just hope the caffeine kicks in before the animals stage a protest.
Sharing breakfast with Henry has taught me something, though. Breakfast isn’t just about food—it’s about starting the day with a little joy. For Henry, joy is carrots. For me, joy might be French toast one day and oatmeal the next. But what makes it special is taking a moment to actually sit (or in Henry’s case, stand on four hooves) and enjoy it.
And that’s why I want to know: what’s your go-to breakfast food? Do you lean sweet—waffles, pastries, fruit piled high on yogurt? Or do you go savory with bacon, hash browns, and eggs cooked just right? Maybe you’ve got a quirky favorite—cold pizza, leftover pie, or cereal that’s more sugar than grain. Hey, no judgment here—Henry once tried to steal my blueberry muffin, and I think he’d eat just about anything if given the chance.
So next time you hear Henry bray at the break of dawn, picture us out here: him crunching happily on his hay, me trying not to spill coffee while flipping pancakes or frying eggs. Breakfast isn’t always pretty, but it’s always worth it.
Now tell me—if you pulled up a chair at Henry’s breakfast table, what would be on your plate?
