The day after Thanksgiving brings a swell of gratitude that matches the feast preceding it. Here, in front of my refrigerator, I see food ready to tumble out if I'm not careful: cranberry jelly, Brussels sprouts, a container of mashed potatoes, stuffing, some extravagant chocolate cake a guest brought, wine, excess beer. All I want is a simple breakfast, but this array triggers my sense of obligation to use what's before me. This bounty forces a collision of palettes on my breakfast: I add mashed potatoes to my morning menu with eggs. With the quiet thump of the door close, I juggle my collection of containers over to the counter where I'll assemble and sauté a mixture of scrambled eggs with seared mashed potato cake on the side. The smell of the butter cake brings an aroma that fills the kitchen only once a year or so. The smooth, stiff potatoes melt in the heat and butter. The eggs congeal with the melting cheese in them, steaming up and appearing just done enough to slide onto my clean white plate sitting next to the range. My post-Thanksgiving breakfast clamors for my devotion and appetite.