The breakfast gnocchi demands excellence. The mind must be perfectly smeared across calendar days. For equipment, I recommend a well-aged but docile set of flannel pajamas. Brushed teeth are recommended, but the orthodox school deems it a faux pas.
The breakfast gnocchi is best eaten curled cheshirely in an armchair. The tongue tests the tang of the marinara before slicing the gnocco's tender underbelly with a slow, smooth stroke. The chew of the gnocchi gratifies the jaw, and its marriage of wheat and potato gratifies the mind. Thus the breakfast gnocchi, at first so delectably taboo, reveals its true fraternity with breakfastkind.
The morning's coil of gnocchi girds the body for an afternoon hike, preferably with a cousin of like mind. The hot heat of the hills turns the conversation to vital matters of the spirit: moussaka, capuccino, rasam, beignets, idli, falafel, and the humble raviolo. At hike's end, a cold glass of water and a grandmother's hot chai soothe the body and temper the mind. Salted pecans are welcomed with due courtesy.
Here the traveler's heart is seduced by thoughts of gelato. It is vital, above all else, to yield to this impulse. I suggest a small scoop of amaretto, preferably in conspiracy with one's father. If the heart desires it, a plate of a mother's pav bhaji serves as emphatic crescendo.
Then, on running an idle finger across the forehead and tasting the salt of the day's honest labor, one might take a hot shower with peppermint soap, as the gentle night rises to its slow, soft work.
Today was a good day.