“So Patty and I are on the outs,” Cecil informs me over breakfast. Mine the usual yogurt, fruit, grains, nuts and pulses. I think there are some pulse qualifiers in the mix in my bowl. Cecil’s ventured for some French toast today. Comfort food, he tells our waitress, Roxanne. “To cure the broken hearted,” he mocks. Himself, not Roxanne, that is. Continue reading →