The secret to happiness, when awoken at unreasonable o'clock (anytime before 6 am in my book), is french toast. I've tried it the last several days and it has held true. My family always had bear claws when they prodded us out of bed in the dark hours of the morning for skiing, and there were bagels and fanaticism at the butt-crack of dawn for regattas with my rowing team, but clearly they all have it wrong. French toast, slathered with jam, is the answer.
French toast also satisfies the urge to not let food go to waste, as we have a pretty good supply of old bread in the fridge at the moment. I've got all the breadcrumbs I need, plus now that the rat is gone I can't just give her the stale bread, so I feel compelled to eat it myself (I'm pretty sure the Great Depression broke something in my family's collective brain). Earlier this week I made french toast out of two orphaned hot dog buns. They actually turned out quite well, and were delicious slathered with homemade cranberry jelly.