Rising with the call to prayer, I’m in no position to deal with breakfast. At 4.30AM, it’s strictly bare necessities – showering, shaving, checking ‘Words With Cheats’ as to whether a TRIFOEP tile rack will let me bingo the shit out of a dependably insomniac WWF opponent* – before it’s time to saddle up and Ride the Dog.™ There’s nary time to break wind, let alone an an egg, and anyway, at that hour I hardly feel like tucking in to our usual breakfast fare:
Still, I kind of feel like something before putting in a couple of hours on the thin black ribbon of death known as the Warrego Highway.
I used to do neat coffee. But in the pre-light of a bitter winter’s weekday, the only thing more vulnerable than my heart is my gastric lining, at which long blacks ate like coke through a
I tried flat whites too, but the soporific effects of the warm milk overwhelmed any stimulation offered by the caffeine. I’d end up feeling sleepier than when I began, like a drowsy little poddy calf just off the teat.
In any event, both these options are now ruled out, following the multi-dollar collapse of the early-opener greasy spoon next to the Greyhound depot.
(The bus waiting room does have a vending machine, but frankly I’m too shit scared to try it. Not only for fear of what might come out, but because I once saw it used by a massive, blonde, mining type with the Moby Dick of all mullets, immediately after bare-handing a phlegm bomb. I’m no clean freak, but my schedule’s full enough already without pleurisy.)
It’s coffee, mixed with 50 grams of butter. I got the idea from here, where they call it ‘Bulletproof Coffee’, and tag it with the power to do everything from balance endocrines to render Being Lara Bingle watchable. (There’s a shit load of other ‘life hack’ ideas at the site too [a phrase which, incidentally, makes me want to hack out my eyes that I might never read it again], most of which confuse me, though I like the concept of exercising once a week.)*
As for the coffee – I was hesitant initially, thinking it’d be like drinking brew through the dairy equivalent of the Exxon Valdez. Yet once whizzed up, it’s all blended uniformly, the taste is fine, and I’m left feeling mostly woken, rather than in the wired-or-wan states long blacks and flat whites were leaving me.
Admittedly there’s a little slick left on the lips, though not as bad as anticipated. I had expected to come up from the mug greased like I’d just got to first base with Jabba the Hutt, or brushed my teeth with personal lubricant. But it’s no worse than a light once-over with Chapstick a la beurre.
They’re pretty prescriptive at the Bulletproof site as to what should go into it – proprietary beans, grass fed butter, expeller-pressed yak’s jizz – but it tastes fine on standard coff and unsalted butter.
If you are looking to stick to the script, I’ve no idea where you’d get the types of beans old mate suggests, but in Toowoomba you can get grass fed butter easy enough from Mr Organic in McDougall Street out near the airport.
Full disclosure: Since starting this post I’ve stopped downing these on Dog days. Not because they weren’t working, there’s just a little too much dicking around in the prep. But I do drink them every ‘home’ morning. They wash down the boar and swan pie nicely.
*It can, and I did: FIREPOT. Boom.