The breakfast of the seventh day

I measure my week with the flatbreads I make on the first day,
but for some reason, I’m always one piece short. Perhaps it all
boils down to the slightly too small bowl for making the dough,
although coincidentally, I use six eggs in this unorthodox recipe,
because nowadays everything is supposed to have a bit of real
creativity, isn’t it? So I face the breakfast of the seventh day
with no intention of fasting, but also breaking with the weekly
pattern as a last resort. Only, why does anything in between
seem tantamount to Buridan’s ass?

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