Losses – Coming Out as TransGender

Kind of an odd day… and I have been reflecting on this for some time now, here it is coming all together. I have avoided personal writing, for my own reasons – I have also satisfied my urges for personal writing by keeping them as drafts, here. This is article is a bit more personal.

Today is Remembrance Day. Have you forgotten what that is – or are you reflecting on it as an American, wondering what it really means?

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Armistice Day is observed on 11 November to recall the end of World War I on that date in 1918 (major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice). The day was specifically dedicated by King George V, on 7 November 1919, to the observance of members of the armed forces who were killed during war.

Oddly enough, I found myself playing Call of Duty, Modern Warfare 2, today. I reflected on what it means for people to lose others. We have losses nearly every day, a Policeman was killed in Seattle, some die in a plane crash, another with swine flu – many in vehicle accidents; the highest killer of all people under 25.

I had buried all my grandparents by 18 (carried the caskets of 3 of them). My father and biological mother (I cast her ashes in the Cromarty Firth in Scotland on a sunny November day) are both dead. All that is left for me of immediate older family is my mother who no longer remembers who I am or anything of my childhood – she was the last to know the child who was David (I think that is the first time I have ever mentioned that name!). I left my country, left behind friends and family more than 20 years ago now. Ad to that the experience I have had as a Wilderness E.M.T. and I think I know something about loss.

I lived with my father for nearly a year, back in Canada, as he wound down and died of cancer. I held his hand, with me crying when he died – and took out my stethoscope to hear his last rasping breaths and weak heartbeat cease.

Losses. “Becoming” (if that is what this is – but it is how others see it) transgender, incurs losses.

I came out first, publically, in March of 2007. I thought that I would start to come out publically after I had resumed the hormone treatments in Feb 2007 and had started body hair removal in Dec 2006. Physical changes and personal encouragement brought me ‘out’.

Before I tell you any stories – here is the data I offer… Of all the people (family, friends, coworkers), who knew / know you, that you tell when ‘coming out’, here are the results I observed:

50% will disappear, fading over a little time (or not) and they will drop right off the radar

Of the remaining 50%:

75% will react based on beliefs, judgment and experiences that you never knew they had, and the relationship will be changed significantly from what it was. Sometimes this is for the better.

25% will remain and they will accept you pretty much as you are.

What that means is that about 1 in 8 will still see you as they nearly always saw you. Then 3 in 8 will treat you differently and may hold some concept of who you are – they may also hold judgment and bias that will manifest itself in weird ways. Those other remaining 4 in 8 – they will drop you right away, or disappear quickly, being unable to come to terms with their loss of you as a person in their life.

Now the stories – first the positive, then some losses.

G: He was – and still is – my best friend. He knew that I had been on hormones back in my late 20’s. We had traveled together, camped, skinny dipped together. I told him about the hormones and breasts 6 years ago – and he had seen them when swimming with me. When he was first told about me transitioning, he reacted like I was kidding – like I was trying to say I was going to start cross dressing. It has taken over 2 years for him to refer to me as Sarah to others, he still calls me David to my face (and that is ok). He still struggles a bit with me as female – mostly because he thought that I would become another person. I think he thought that I would become a woman who knew nothing of what I had in my head and who never saw what my eyes have seen. He now seems to understand that we can still talk and play with Land Rovers. He is in the 1 in 8.

C: Thank God, I am working with / for and incredible women who is my direct supervisor with the company I work for and a person I am glad to call friend. She never batted an eye (although she does stare at my chest sometimes). She is the only person I interact on a daily basis with that I can make gender comments to. Like when we were in Safeway and I said “If I give to breast cancer I also have to give to prostate cancer – I can get both!”. She is always about the performance of the individual, not the gender – and she is quick to point out that the ‘innies’ get a harder shake of it. I remember when I told her (I then sent her this blog)… she said, so are you like a cross dresser on the weekend? Standing there, wearing a womans jacket, I took it off and said “I am wearing all women’s clothing, and have been – have you not noticed the make-up and everything else”? I have 7 ear piercings, long hair and breasts… yet, she met me as David and still sees me as ‘him’. C has never ‘betrayed’ me, never slighted me with a careless comment. The relationship is what I wanted – unchanged. I do not want to be Sarah to her.

N: He is in the 3 of 8 category. N is a great friend, who became a better friend after I told him. It did change one thing – he still, no matter how much I explain it to him, wants to see me “in drag”. What that means, is that he wants me to look like some kind of performance drag queen! Sorry N. He is nice though (and he is gay) and has treated me great as a woman when we go out – he is the one guy I like going out to dinner with. His Thanksgiving dinners are as the family that I do not have.

The other 50% – who dropped off

J: G told J before I could talk to him. Now he has been a great friend, what else can you call a person who will help you drywall and insulate in your garage, live on your boat (and help pay for it), help you through a divorce?… the list goes on. I never got another email from him. I have seen him on three occasions in the past 2+ years at social Land Rover events and he treats me like I have an infection, that is contagious, in a cloud 20′ around me. WTF? 

J is the most glaring example of the 50% that fall off, but he is joined by

L: Who I at one time considered a soul mate and more, was the daughter of lesbians and feigned understanding and support until the truth caught her up – the lie that she held. L suffered from the Peter Syndrome – in private, she was all about support, but in public and with people she knew (in any way), I found that she did not even mention our relationship, living with me or who I was. In the end, even with her here, I found that she would introduce me as a friend, David, while loving Sarah. L denied knowing me publically.

A: She is really in the 25%, but there was a wake of losses that my closest confidant, friend, lover and so much more affected because she was more than willing to share ‘who I was’. She told old coworkers and other acquaintances. She also told her conservative family before she had even worked out what was really happening – let alone how to talk about it. Not once was I there to share my truth. The mother of A was also able to fake support and understanding, for a short time, until I found out that she had portrayed me as a freak to all she knew (and she is the matriarch of the extended family) and her daughter as someone trying to ‘rescue me’. This is where I really learned the term “frienemy”. Honestly, those that have gone – the losses – the real loss is theirs. I gained knowing who are true friends to my being.

The relationships with women in intimacy have been most challenging. Beyond being TG, there has been other complications (like other relationships), but the “TG thing” always has a large bearing. I no longer know what is truth – honesty. There always seemed to be some kind of deception when all that I offered was the bearing of an innermost past that I buried for 30 years behind facial hair and outdoor leadership skills teaching. Being TG and transitioning is hard in intimacy, few relationships of this kind survive the transition phase.

Honestly, the most damage to relationships has been caused by others telling my “TG story” to friends that we both know together. Once you share “the secret” (because that is what it is to everyone you talk to), they will want to tell others; I promise you that.

So, the best way to share your coming out is organize yourself, figure out who, when, where and what you want to say – and in what order. After that, it will change your life, just like your transition will.

I have no regrets after more than 3 years of coming out. I look forward to the continuing journey.

PF OX – the servant of Satan?

OK, those are strong words, but read on, educate yourself with PF OX’s mission. This is best summed up here… with some interesting propaganda in the ‘about us’ of PF OX.

The original article; http://pfox.org/Former_Transgender_Tells_His_Story.html

Here is Grishno’s commentary to that story (brilliant writing and delivery). I love her emotion and action.

http://www.youtube.com/user/grishno

Now you have read the story – and heard the response. PF OX is a self serving “Christian” group who enjoys the rescuing of Gays, Lesbians and TG’s. People who get confused about sexuality, sexual orientation and gender, wandering to the whim of others, can be equally swayed by the pseudo-Christian group who acts notably, UN-Christian.

This goes back to my statement to everyone, TG and others. If you want to be happy, complete, secure - Know who you are, FIRST – then know what you want (second). If you get confused and do what you want before you know who you then it will be a rough road in your life of empty quests.

Lastly, Come on Christians, act like good Christians – act Christ-like in your understanding, compassion, forgiveness and love for people that you really know nothing about. Christ never said anything about tolerance – and the LGBT community does not need just tolerance, but the higher calling be held to the Christians who express their distaste for the community of LGBT. I am a good Catholic and Christian…

Vehicles I have Owned!

Among the many things I am; I am a lover of vehicles! I mean, I really, really like cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, boats and tractors! I buy them, fix them up and play with them. My skills in working with them include: welding and fabrication, sewing upholstery, auto body and painting, rebuilding and retrofitting!

What the heck do I do with them? Well, some I fix up and sell, some I drive and enjoy; until I sell them, some I show (and place well)… You get the idea. So it is not too scary, I have not owned them all at once – and nearly every one has been an interesting story. I sold only two of these cars for less than I paid to buy them!

Vehicles I have owned

Cars/Trucks/Buses;

1976 AMC Gremlin X

1988 BMW 325is

1978 BMW 530i

1972 Chevrolet Suburban

1963 Citroen 2CV

1971 Citroen Mahari

1964 Dodge D300 – one ton truck that I owned for 22 years and was the first vehicle I ever bought.

1972 Dodge Dart, 318

1979 Fiat Spyder

1978 Fiat Brava

1972 Ford Pinto

1978 Gillig School Bus 72 pass., Cat 3208, MT643

1974 Gillig Bus

1974 Gillig School Bus 73 pass., Cat 3208, MT643

1956 GMC bus – Carpenter, 42 Passenger – “Blue Moose”

The buses – I owned the Blue Moose from 1989 to 2008. The Blue Moose was my home on two occasions; for a year and a half when running a kayak tour company, and the last trimester and first a year and a half of my sons life. The 1974 Gillig was to be the replacement for the Blue Moose, alas, life changed – again.

1978 Honda Civic

1973 Jeep DJ5 – when I first moved to San Francisco, I needed a car to run around with…

1962 Land Rover 88″ SIIA

1967 Land Rover 109″ SIIA- currently in the stable, since 1998. This one is being fitted as an RHD Australian truck with a 292.

1970 88

1970 Land Rover 88″ SIIA “BEAN TOAD” – currently in the stable, since 1989. Pictures with a hand built SI style pickup top.

1970 Land Rover 88″ SIIA pickup/wrecker/recovery RHD

1972 Land Rover 88 SIII – the original Bean Toad

My infatuation with Series Land Rovers continues to this day. Bean Toad is the steady in my stable, having found her after being left in a farm field for 14 years, abandoned. I bought her in 1989, then I went off sailing and left her in storage. I fixed up my 1970 Land Rover after returning home from cruising (sailing) and she has been on the road since a month before my son was born – November 1992. She still sees use and has been a show winner and off-road competition winner. I will rebuild her once more, restoring the paint and body work and allow her to run out her days (until my son can drive her in a couple years) as a Sunday driver.

1967 Mercedes 250S

1971 Mercedes 404 Unimog

1971 Mercedes Unimog 404 – Swiss Troop Carrier

1972 Mercedes 250C

1959 Nash Metropolitan – I bought one to play with it because my mother owned one as her first car.

1967 Plymouth Valiant, slant 6

1966 Pontiac Beaumont w/283-8 – this one was actually my mothers 2nd car. I drove it to hell and back (while going through University).

1966 Pontiac Beaumont w/230-6

1984 Range Rover (white)

1988 Range Rover (silver) – currently in stable since 2004. Sitting, waiting for the 3.9 to be fitted into Blue Bomber.

1988 Range Rover (blue) – currently in stable, since 2006 – “Blue Bomber”

1990 Range Rover (red)

1968 Renault 8

1969 Renault 8

1970 Renault 8

1976 Renault 17 Gordini – I rebuilt this one from a front end wreck.

1977 Renault 17

2006 Scion Xb - currently in stable, since 2008 – “Blue Box”

The 2006 Scion Xb is the newest car I have ever owned – by nearly 2 decades. I thought that I deserved a break from old cars and wanted something I did not have to build up; for once. I chose this one, because in a sea of cars, minivans and little SUV’s – this one alone stands out. And damn, I love a flatter windscreen, upright seating, rear windows that roll all the way to the bottom and a tall, open roof inside. One of only 2 Japanese cars I have ever owned.

1978 Subaru wagon – cool beater with a high low transfer case. My first real 4 wheel drive!

1979 Subaru GL wagon

1965 Volkswagen Type 2

1971 Volkswagen Type 3

1973 Volkswagen Type 2 Westphalia, with 2L 100hp Porsche

1978 Volkswagen Rabbit diesel

1986 Volkswagen Type 2 Camperized

Motorcycles;

1973 Bultaco Pursang 250 – with vintage flat track and motocross setup parts.

1971 Honda CL360

1973 Honda Trail 90

1976 Honda TS200

1986 Honda 200S – Trike

1972 Hodaka Combat Wombat – #3 serial number!

1976 Kawasaki KT125

1997 KZ1000P as

1997 Kawasaki KZ1000P – Ex Las Vegas Police bike

2001 Kawasaki KLR650 – currently in the stable, since 2005

1972 Suzuki TS125

1973 Suzuki TS 185

1981 Suzuki GS400T

1996 Ural with sidecar

1973 Yamaha 75

1972 Yamaha YS200

1971 yamaha YS 125

1971 Moped

Boats;

Freedom 21 Sailboat - my current sailboat!

1985 Freedom 21’

1976 Kestral 16’

1976 Piver Nimble 30’

Kalakala - Ingrid 38 under full sail

 

1978 Ingrid 38’

Walker Bay sailing dingy

Gig Harbor Dingy

Zodiak Futura

2 Kahuna surf Kayaks

2 Pungo Kayaks

Inflatable Kayak – in stable

2 Current Designs Kayaks – in stable

Custom touring kayak – in stable; my original British Kayak from 1985

Others;

292 GM engine to be fitted to 1967 109 Land Rover

1951 International WD9

1983 Custom 12’ box utility trailer

1967 13’ travel trailer

1999 Car Caddy tow dolly – currently in the stable, since 2002.

Tent trailer

Chev truck box trailer

1973 VW bug trailer (matching my 1973 VW Bus)

1968 Chrysler Sailboat Trailer

So – are you crazy about vehicles too? My vehicle tastes for cars and trucks run towards European, Buses are American and Motorcycles are Japanese… mostly. Vehicles from Russia, Canada, USA, Japan, England, France, Italy and more!

Excellent Story of M2F

I have been composing my own story for a long time. There has been snipetts of other peoples information that I have strongly approved of while researching for writing and understanding Gender.

The choice (or not) for moving into a new gender is not to be taken lightly. I am originally from Calgary, Alberta - here is the story of a women also from Canada.

I would like you to meet Megan, she is young (I suspect the median age for M2F SRS is commonly 36-38).

http://www.youtube.com/user/tenderkisses33

In Megan’s own words – I’m a 22 year old Trans Girl from Saskatchewan, Canada. I’m a post-op Male to Female transsexual (in technical terms) but I prefer to be considered a woman. I’m currently in the recovery stage from my Surgery. I had the GRS surgery with Dr. Chettawut in Thailand on July 2nd 2008 and I’m very happy with my results. I’m also orgasmic as I have experienced my very first (also very intense :3) orgasm on September 22nd 2008. I’m currently rethinking my goals for the future and I hope to continue my vlog here on YouTube.

From over a year ago – just on hormones. August 2007

Arrival in Thailand for “the operation”! July 2008

2 months after the SRS. September 2008

The choice to do this at what is a young age in North America is indeed brave. Many older M2F’s have commented that they wish they had done it while younger.

Ed Gillet and Kayaking

Time and experience changes everyone. Here is a humbling story, from a humble man.

Ed Gillet has been one of my personal modern heros for nearly three decades. I did my first solo paddling on the West Coast of Canada while he was preparing for this trip. I read about him two years later.

Ed was 36 in 1987 when he did this. These are his own words.

Pacific Journey – from California to Hawaii
Ed Gillet’s account of his paddle
 
When I said that I was planning to paddle across 2200 miles of open ocean in a twenty foot kayak, people looked at me as though I had told them I was going to commit suicide. My listeners projected their deepest fears on my trip. Wasn’t I afraid of losing my way on the trackless ocean, starvation, thirst, going mad from lack of human contact, or being eaten by sharks? They were seldom reassured when I told them of my thirty thousand miles of sailing experience and ten thousand miles of kayaking along the most formidable coastlines in the world. But I was confident that my kayak and I would arrive safely in Hawaii. Most people think large vessels are the most seaworthy ones. But this is not always true.

Survival at sea depends on preparation, experience, and prudence – not on boat size. I turned my kayak into one of the most seaworthy little boats in the world. I did not need to carry a life raft – I paddled a life raft. Inside my kayak, I crammed 60 days food and 25 gallons of fresh water. With my reverse osmosis pumps, I could make unlimited amounts of additional drinking water from sea water. I carried fishing gear, tools, and spare parts. In a waterproof bag I had, a compact VHF radio to contact passing ships, and an emergency radio beacon to alert aircraft flying overhead in case I needed to be rescued. Flares, sig-nal mirrors, a strobe-light, and a radar reflector ensured that I would be seen.

My kayak was as stoutly built as any fibreglass sailboat. I wanted to paddle a true kayak across the ocean – not a specialized sailboat masquerading as a kayak. I used a stock Necky Tofino double kayak with no mast, sail, centerboard, or keel. My boat had a foot-operated rudder and a wooden floor inside so that I could sleep a few inches above the water sloshing back and forth in the bottom of the boat. To stabilize my kayak while I slept, I inflated pontoons which I lashed to both sides of the boat. When the pontoons were deployed I could move around in my kayak with-out fear of capsize. A sailor’s safety harness fastened me securely to my boat.

To find my way at sea I used a sextant and a small calculator programmed to work out navigation sights. I could figure my position to within a few miles – when I could see the sun. I chose the crossing to Hawaii because the summer weather patterns are stable and the winds and currents are almost always favourable. The trip seemed to me to be the kayaking equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. It was the most difficult trip I could conceive of surviving.

On a cold, foggy morning three kayaks glided out of the harbour at Monterey. My wife Katie paddled one of the boats. At the one mile buoy off Lover’s point, we said goodbye, embracing from the kayaks. Pointing my kayak west and heading out to sea was the hardest thing I have ever done. Tears rolled down my face and I could hear Katie crying. I looked back from fifty yards away and I knew that we were thinking the same thought: that we might never see each other again.

I felt foolish attempting to paddle to Hawaii. Who did I think I was to attempt such an improbable feat?

Despite extensive preparation, my confidence was soon shattered by the relentless pounding swell of the Pacific Ocean. I had underestimated the abuse my body – especially my hands – would take on the 63 day crossing. After only a few days at sea, my butt was covered with saltwater sores and I could find no comfortable positions for sitting or sleeping. Within a week, the skin on the backs of my hands was so cracked and chapped that I took painkillers to make paddling bearable.

Running downwind off California, I wore several layers of synthetic pile and polypropylene clothing – the type of clothing which is touted to be warm when it is wet. I stayed warm as long as I wore everything I had, but I was certainly wet.

I was miserable but I spurred myself on with the thought that when I reached the southern trade wind latitudes, warm, sunny weather awaited…

Sailors can have two distinct waking nightmares: too much wind and too little wind. Heading south from Monterey, California, I lived through the first bad dream. The howling grey northwesterlies nearly devoured me. For two weeks I headed southwest before thirty knot winds, surfing down fifteen foot high breaking swells. The seas snapped my half-inch thick rudder blades as easily as you might break a saltine cracker. I needed every bit of skill and strength just to stay upright.

The nights were unspeakably grim. I set out two sea anchors and stretched out on the floor of my kayak. Tortured by salt water sores, I snatched a few moments of sleep while green waves crashed over my kayak, forcing themselves into the cockpit. As the ocean slowly filled my boat, I tried to ignore the cold water soaking through my sleeping bag until the rising tide forced me to sit up and pump out the kayak. Then I settled into the bilge and the miserable cycle repeated.

The cold wind was relentless. When I poked my head out in the mornings I screamed into the wind, “I don’t want to die!” I felt as exposed and as stressed as I had on long rock climbs. I relied on my skill and equipment for survival – even a small mistake could prove fatal.

“This can’t be!” I shouted at the empty blue sky. For about the fiftieth time, I looked at my pilot chart. Sitting motionless in my kayak in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a thousand miles from land, I cursed the winds that had abandoned me. There was no swell, no wind – no sound. Without the boisterous trade winds and the westward current they spawn, it would take me two more months to reach the Hawaiian Islands. I did not think that I could survive that long. I had been at sea in my twenty foot kayak for thirty days.

A thousand miles southwest of my starting point I found the flip side of the nightmare – calm weather. In the calm conditions, I dried my sleeping bag and clothing and my skin lesions healed, but my progress slowed dramatically.

As night overtook me, I snapped a lightstick and placed it over my compass. However slowly, I had to keep my kayak moving towards Hawaii. Where were the trade winds? The night was so still that the bowl of bright stars over my head shimmered and danced in the calm sea. I felt as though I was paddling off the edge of the earth and into space.

For two weeks I pushed my kayak westward, until I reached longitude 140 west. Nine hundred miles from my goal, the trade winds blew strongly enough to launch my parafoil kite. This colourful flying sail did not replace paddling, but the kite’s pull doubled my speed and I averaged fifty miles a day.

A school of blue and gold mahi-mahi fish played about my boat, frolicking and jumping in my bow wave. Catching them was easy since they always seemed voraciously hungry fighting each other to be first to bite the lures which I trailed behind on a hand-line. I even trained them to gather close to my boat when I knocked on my hull by feeding them cut up pieces of bait. Once a day I slipped a fish hook into a piece of bait and another mahi-mahi became sashimi.

Those days were the best of the trip. The strong trade winds were ideal for paddling. The royal blue surging swells were no more than six feet high and my yellow bow skipped over the waves as if my kayak knew the way to the islands.

Three hundred miles from the islands, I was caught up in a northerly current. The wind shifted from northeast to southeast and the strong current set me north at the rate of thirty miles a day. If that current had not changed, I would have landed in Japan, missing the islands by hundreds of miles.

I thought that if I was soon to become a life raft, I ought to prepare my life raft equipment. I rummaged through my storage compartments, collecting my emergency radio beacon, flares, and signal mirrors. If I were going to miss the islands, my best chance for rescue would come when I crossed the shipping lanes fifty miles north of me.

On my sixtieth day at sea, I ran out of food. My school of mahi-mahi had left me a week before. I had eaten my toothpaste two days earlier. There was nothing edible left in the boat, and no fish were biting my lures. Looking up, I watched a line of jet airplanes heading for Hawaii. I thought about the passengers eating from their plastic trays. My food fantasies were so real and so complete that I could recreate every detail of every restaurant I had ever visited. I could remember the taste, texture and smell of meals I had eaten several years ago. I thought about how I should have gone to a grocery store in Monterey and bought fifty cans of Spam, or chili, and stuffed the cans into my boat.

I had nearly completed the world’s longest open ocean crossing, but I did not feel any closer to land. I had been scribbling different latitude and longitude numbers on the side of my boat, but I had no sense of progress. My kayak trip seemed as though it would last forever. In my 63rd day at sea, I was taking my usual noon latitude sight. When I swung my sextant to look at the southern horizon, I was annoyed by the mountain filling my sextant viewfinder and fouling up my view of the horizon line. “That damned mountain…” I thought. Seconds later, I realised I was looking at land! That dark mountain had to be Mauna Kea, 80 miles away on the ‘big island’ of Hawaii. The island of Maui 40 miles ahead was hidden under a blanket of squally clouds. As the clouds cleared, Haleakala reared its head and I knew I was almost home.

I whooped for joy when I saw land. I had only been pretending to be a sea creature. I was a land creature travelling through a hostile environment. My survival depended on the life support system I carried in my kayak and my support system was exhausted. Nearing land, I felt as though a weight was being lifted from my shoulders.

After paddling and kite sailing all night, I brought my kayak into the calm lee of Maui outside Kahului harbour. The scents of rainwashed soils and lush tropical plants washed over me like waves of perfume. No one greeted me when my bow dug a fur-row into the sandy beach. Stepping onto the beach for the first time in more than two months, I could not make my legs obey me. They crumpled underneath me and I sat down heavily in the shallow water. A local character staggering down the beach asked me where I had come from. When I told him that I had paddled my kayak from California, he whistled. “That’s a long way,” he said. “Must’ve taken you two or three days, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I talked him into helping me drag my kayak up the beach, then he wandered off. Reeling like a drunken Popeye, I lurched off in search of a junk food breakfast.

By Ed Gillet