"If we were all suddenly somebody else." —James Joyce, Ulysses 

Whose ill-fated life have you entered?

That of Leopold Bloom's.

A man of thirty-eight years, residing at the address 7 Eccles Street, husband to Marion (or a name more warm to the touch: Molly), a sensitive father to Milly, once father to Rudy, philosophy aficionado and, this morning, quite peckish.

What is the date?

Thursday, June 16th, 1904.

Now, what meal did Leopold Bloom consume on the early morning of June 16th, 1904? 

A solitary repast: a singular, lonely, seared kidney, prepared by a rather less than inattentive hand.

The stench? 

Pungent meatjuice. The interior, stately, plump, scored with a tang of faintly scented urine. Both repulsive and strangely gratifying, they satisfied his inquisitive taste for animal physiology, and his interest in digestion.

What about butter and toast instead?

Reserved only for her. A plate right next to his; a slice of bread, humble and embellished; a cup of tea. His feline observer, overseeing this domestic ritual. Hm. What does she think? A creature of appetite, perhaps she wonders why Bloom does not also share his kidney.

What considerations governed his choice of meal that morning? 

Practicality: the necessity of bodily substance, a renewal of energy that follows the long unconscious dormancy practice of sleep.

Habit: the routine of it all, a meal of neither gluttony nor austerity. The same kitchen at the same table with the same little arrangements with the Freeman's folded like a vow to the left of Bloom's breast, the same breast where he shares the same aches as Milly. How reassuring, the repetition of things. 

Carnal desires: the lingering taste of kidney and its high grade haunch of veal origin. What becomes of the body once devoured? Does it continue in another form? Does the animal live on within me, as the dead live on in memory? The unsatisfied desires, both physical and otherwise, that simmer under the surface of his mind, the suppressed want for flesh. A man who is never quite finished wanting.

Had the circumstances of June 16th, 1904, been different?

A meal much gentler to the stomach and to the mind: a soft-boiled egg, its yolk golden; a slice of toast, butter melting in rivulets across its crisp surface; a spoonful of honey, thick and glistening, the ambered waves of grain distilled into sweetness; a cup of tea, milky and mild, stirred absentmindedly as thoughts stirred with it. Honey rather than sugar, an unconscious allusion to Molly, whose Spanish ancestry and sweet, perfumed sensuality stay with him even in her physical absence. Maybe on a day other than June 16th, 1904, there'd be time for a more contemplative meal.

What justifies these gentler choices?

Digestive ease: the avoidance of the kidney's heaviness just sitting in his gut, the presiding preference for something that will settle rather than linger, after all, he is all too often used to the feeling of loss.

Love, the lack of thereof: the honey, that of Molly's skin in the morning light, the tea, the beverage she prefers, a small act of devotion in these quiet hours.

He can try to have eggs with toast, but in the end—she will have her toast, and he will have his kidney.

With whom does he enjoy this breakfast with? 

Alone, in body, seated at the wooden table, a plate before him, the morning paper next to him, the steam seeping quietly.

Accompanied in mind: by the specters of afflictions, of Molly's laughter, Rudy. Yet not really so. A mere presence. His ghost, forever a soul in the corner of Bloom's thoughts.

By the city: the distant clamour of trams, the peace of Dublin awakening, the quiet stream of the Liffey.

Would he have read while consuming? 

Certainly so.

A newspaper, creased, folded with care, the Freeman's Journal, its ink speaks of political nonsense, mundane notices: "What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. With it, an abode of bliss." A call to domesticity, of the commerce of daily life. 

A flyer, an advertisement, his calling to ascension, he is truly beyond remedy. What is this man without his advertisements? Everybody is selling something and everybody is wanting something. Buy this and that and become a better man. Metempsychosis by purchase, a brand new life for ten shillings.

Would his thoughts remain on his meal? 

No.

It would have drifted ceaselessly, a torrent and endless stream of thoughts, as it does, from the warmth of tea to the calculating heat of the sun, from butter spread on toast in which he ultimately chose, to the weight at the bottom of his cup with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. His mind, ever the restless thing, turning over each and every morsel not only in his mouth but in consciousness, chewing at the thought, the speculation, the memory; hungry for meaning.

And her?

Inevitably.

Of her body, curved and indolent, reclining in that bed of theirs, her breathing, slow and steady.

Of her inevitable afternoon gallivanting off with another: Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaking toward 7 Eccles Street. The sound of another man's steps where his should be.

Of her presence, or lack thereof, yet still at every breakfast and dinner Bloom has. May she be awake, the weakling would sprint up immediately with a tray with toast and tea, indulging in her, much like how he overzealously buys her a cake in "Calypso". Mind off of the fact that no one else treats him with such sincerity as he does unto others.

Did he finish his meal with satisfaction? 

Yes: for the tea that finished steeping was warm; for the toast was crisp; for the honey sweet.

No: for the hunger is not just of his body but of the heart, the mind, the soul. This hunger never meant to be satiated.

His breakfasts are flavored with this subdued, quivering unspoken sadness. He does not blame Molly, nor does he ruminate on this bitterness of his.

What did this breakfast reveal about this man? 

That he is a man who finds poetry in the swirling milk in tea, in the dripping honey on a spoon, in the simple act of nourishment.

And what has this life revealed to you? 

That one does not think of these things when they set the table, one simply sets it.

That perhaps another person's life is not so different from one's own.

That beneath the peculiarities of another man's appetites, there exists the same desire to be wanted.

That in the morning I have had in Dublin, in a kitchen that is not mine, beside a woman who does not know me, remembering a child I never held—this hunger feels familiar.

Whose hunger is this? 

Mine, I suppose.