This isn't what I ordered, though.

I do not like green eggs and ham. It's nothing personal, I just prefer French toast. Sam knows this, we've spoken about it at some length. I have to say he was really pushy about the whole green eggs and ham thing, but eventually, he accepted my right to eschew that dish, and enjoy French toast.

So this morning when I headed over to his little restaurant for my usual Sunday brunch, I was understandably dismayed when he removed the cover with a flourish to reveal his signature porcine and poultry recipe.

"Sam," I said, "We've talked about this. It doesn't matter what you do, I will never like green eggs and ham."

"But this is French toast," he said beaming at me.

"No it's not, it's fucking ham and eggs."

"No, it's not," he repeated. "Words change," he added. "Language is continually evolving."

"Right," I said. "But my taste in breakfast isn't. If you have decided," I said, "that now, green eggs and ham is called French toast (and by the way, 'evolving' is not the same as 'changing by decree') that means that all previous statements regarding French toast are now off the table. Let me elaborate," I said. "Words do not have the power to magically transform matter. If you now refer to what was formerly known as green eggs and ham as French toast, it does not make it that thing which was formerly known as French toast. When I said I liked French toast, I meant I liked that thing which was at that time called French toast, I did not mean that I liked it because it was called French toast." We regarded each other, and then we regarded the dish. "What are you now calling French toast?" I asked.

He looked at me levelly. "French toast," he said.

"Oh my god, Sam," I yelled. "Enough with the fucking green eggs and ham. I don't like them, I will never like them. Can you not just fucking leave it?"

"But this is French toast," he said. "Made to the recipe of colonial France."

Which is why I am having breakfast at home.