For the last two nights, I have had no choice but to fall asleep on my side (or, as my sister and I coined: “aggressive side,” a hybrid side-stomach position where one attempts to fold oneself into the couch/bed/floor by lying/leaning/teetering on one side of the tummy. It’s actually much more soothing than my sub-par description suggests). Now don’t get me wrong: Thanksgiving was a lovely time this year and I’ve returned to my city home rather refreshed and laden with mom-sponsored treasures. But we all know that the body goes into Early-Stage Hurliday Insurrection Mode shortly after Turkey Day and begs you for nothing but basics for about a week straight.
Luckily, my tummy’s silent protest has coincided quite nicely with the fact that fridge/pantry levels hovered around Next to Nothing upon my return. Too tired and turned off by the prospect of anything too complex, I took a good hard stare at what I did have and put a few pieces together for a new/old favorite:
Peasant breakfast (just… for dinner this time).
Ms. Klein introduced me to Peasant Breakfast the first time I came down to see her in her St. Louis palace and I haven’t really been the same since. By which I mean, if I ever have the opportunity/materials to slap some cheese on a thick piece of toast, then put some type of green atop that, then put a soft-fried egg on top of that, I take it. Breakfast, lunch, dinner; it don’t matta. Spinach, kale, arugula; whatever. Colby, feta, brie; fine.
So today I made a nice pile of the following:
- a thick slice of sourdough bread, toasted
- some triple-creme I had left over (from god knows what. How had I failed to find some kind of vehicle– jesus, even a lowly tortilla chip would do in a pinch!– to finish that off like the priceless goodness it is? Sometimes I escape even myself.)
- the end of a bag of baby spinach, just-barely-sauteed (not the bag, the spinach) in a spoonful of chicken stock & salt & pepper
- a lovely fried egg (incidentally, I have been honing my egg-frying skills lately and I think I’ve figured it out. Try this: low heat, a bit of olive oil in the pan, crack your egg into it, salt & pepper if that’s what you’re into, then cover it and leave it be for a few minutes. The last few times I’ve tried this, I’ve gotten a fully-cooked white and a still-runny yolk, and minimal stickage in the pan. Don’t say I never gave you anything.)
And listened to “Womanizer” remixes on Hype Machine (…what?) and watched Gosford Park. With subtitles, for crying out loud– it’s like the entire content of that movie is contained in the layers upon layers of asides and whispered conversations. (Dear Clive Owen: God bless you for always having been so damned dashing, even as a manservant. Or, I suppose, especially as a, er… manservant.)
Ahem. Anyway. I feel a little better after three straight days of gluttony. Huzzah, recovery!