Breakfast was a plastic tray with a syrupy Dole fruit cup and two packages of crackers with margarine. Come on, Air France. Thanks to W. for the cryovaced muffin!
Second Breakfast.
We arrived in Charles de Gaul with a 4 hour layover on a sunny Saturday, coming out of a two day blizzard in New York. Midway through the hour-long process of navigating the glistening white curves of the terminal buildings, we stopped at a little sandwich shop to fuel up. I ordered a Camembert sandwich on sesame bread and a black coffee, having forgotten how harsh and oily French coffee can be. We went outside and enjoyed our sandwiches and coffees on the curb next to the shuttle bus stop. As the sunlight warmed my puffy and sleep deprived face, I thought of all the things I wished I had packed, the letters I wanted to remember to write, and some details of the trafficking I had enlisted N. to participate in. But my eyes were too raw, and I was too far from any possible solution, so I turned my attention back to my first breakfast on French soil. The lettuce in the sandwich was surprisingly fresh and crispy, its’ tender bitterness offsetting the rich creamy Camembert. Really quite good for an airport sandwich. The aggressive coffee produced a BM almost instantly, which I had to run inside to take care of real quick. I came back outside for a moment, showed O. some of the Aichido techniques that I had been learning until some cops drifted over our way. After our brief break in the sun, we gathered ourselves up to head back through security to catch our connecting flight to Brest. Forecast; 9 days of rain.
Tomorrow, French hotel breakfast!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Such Lovely Dinners
I wish I could tell you of the wonderful dinners I've been making the past couple of nights, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's not in this blogs mandate, you see. I'd love to discuss at length the reasoning and economics, and flavor profiles behind Slow-Roasted Salmon with Preserved Lemon Vinaigrette, or Acorn Squash Risotto with Mascarpone and Marjoram, but this humble blog is about a much simpler meal; the most important meal. Breakfast.
Today I had peanut butter and jelly, and a protein bar.
Today I had peanut butter and jelly, and a protein bar.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Guests!
Last weekend I was fortunate enough to have some very distinguished guests to breakfast with, my sister and her boyfriend (thanks to A. O. for the lovely pictures). The day after their arrival I was up first, so I got a little head start on breakfast.
I had been thinking about what to do with the leftover pickling liquid from a jar of pickled fennel carrots I had made a few days before, (they were delicious, thanks!) and realised that they would make a perfect seasoning for a potato salad. I had some leftover red potatoes, a red onion that needed to get used up, some parsley, mustard, etc. In short, I had all the necessary ingredients. By the time my guests were up the potatoes were happily boiling, the onions and parsley were chopped, and the vinaigrette was marinating.
We made a little tea (Earl gray, if I remember correctly, or possibly jasmine green). To go with the potatoes I made some simple egg sandwiches. Two fried eggs (over easy), tarragon, and a couple thin slices of raclette melted briefly on the eggs, and the last few little dabs of the moutard aux fines herbes I had brought back with me on my last trip to France. Here is the final plate.
Was it delicious? Let's see if the most discerning gourmand I know wanted any.
I had been thinking about what to do with the leftover pickling liquid from a jar of pickled fennel carrots I had made a few days before, (they were delicious, thanks!) and realised that they would make a perfect seasoning for a potato salad. I had some leftover red potatoes, a red onion that needed to get used up, some parsley, mustard, etc. In short, I had all the necessary ingredients. By the time my guests were up the potatoes were happily boiling, the onions and parsley were chopped, and the vinaigrette was marinating.
We made a little tea (Earl gray, if I remember correctly, or possibly jasmine green). To go with the potatoes I made some simple egg sandwiches. Two fried eggs (over easy), tarragon, and a couple thin slices of raclette melted briefly on the eggs, and the last few little dabs of the moutard aux fines herbes I had brought back with me on my last trip to France. Here is the final plate.
Was it delicious? Let's see if the most discerning gourmand I know wanted any.
WIHFB is back in the kitchen!
Yours truly in unemployed, back in the kitchen and cooking up more anonymous breakfast fun! Sorry for the radio silence these past few months, but I think the coming ones will be a bountiful season for breakfast blogging. I'm trying out some new techniques, reading up on some breakfast theory, and checking out some new ingredient supply lines. Plus I've got some breakfasts of the past that I'd like to lay before you. Thanks for sticking around, and welcome back!
Good morning. What do you want for breakfast?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Crown Heights breakfast
On Saturday night N. and I passed out in the bed with all our clothes on and the lights on, about 12:30. Around 2 I woke up and realized I still had to walk the dog. I put my cammo windbreaker on and headed into the drizzly Crown Heights night. I couldn't shake the fuzzy head, just thinking about going back to bed. It was quiet. Too quiet, even for that time of night. Wondering where everyone was, I peered ahead into the distance, and realized that hundreds of my Lubavitch neighbors were massed on Eastern Parkway in front of a major synagogue. Curiosity got the better of my fatigue, and I slipped into the crowd to investigate.
Upside down milk-crate with a live chicken inside.
Lubavitcher on his cell phone, holding a completely passive chicken by both wings in the other hand.
Three semi truck trailers, doors open, doing a brisk live chicken business to crowds of Hassidic families directly out of the truck.
Hmmmmmm. Interesting, I thought, and headed around the block to head back home. I turned on to Albany and then onto President St, trying to shake it off. When I got to Kingston I saw a couple cops and some stacked barricades, and a few people hanging around in the street. Knowing that Yom Kippur was coming up I figured they were making some preparations for festivities the next day, and kept going down President towards my house. When I got halfway down the block I realized that there was a big crowd down on the corner, and these little tents set up. I thought about turning around, but I was tired and it seemed a long way to go all the way back around the block, so I pressed on into the crowd again.
The tents were set up over blue tarps, and a steady flow of blood was flowing from each one. Everywhere around me chickens were being waved around, husbands were flailing them over their wives heads, over their own heads, muttering. The chickens were completely calm, maybe for the first time feeling the awakening of the dream of flight in their hearts, before they were handed off to suited men in the makeshift abattoirs.
In the morning we made salad with "sassy baby blend" greens, cucumber, crisp gala apples, shallow-fried lemon pepper unchicken, a surprisingly and delightfully bluey havarti with dill, and lemon mustard vinaigrette with a touch of thyme honey.
And coffee.
Upside down milk-crate with a live chicken inside.
Lubavitcher on his cell phone, holding a completely passive chicken by both wings in the other hand.
Three semi truck trailers, doors open, doing a brisk live chicken business to crowds of Hassidic families directly out of the truck.
Hmmmmmm. Interesting, I thought, and headed around the block to head back home. I turned on to Albany and then onto President St, trying to shake it off. When I got to Kingston I saw a couple cops and some stacked barricades, and a few people hanging around in the street. Knowing that Yom Kippur was coming up I figured they were making some preparations for festivities the next day, and kept going down President towards my house. When I got halfway down the block I realized that there was a big crowd down on the corner, and these little tents set up. I thought about turning around, but I was tired and it seemed a long way to go all the way back around the block, so I pressed on into the crowd again.
The tents were set up over blue tarps, and a steady flow of blood was flowing from each one. Everywhere around me chickens were being waved around, husbands were flailing them over their wives heads, over their own heads, muttering. The chickens were completely calm, maybe for the first time feeling the awakening of the dream of flight in their hearts, before they were handed off to suited men in the makeshift abattoirs.
In the morning we made salad with "sassy baby blend" greens, cucumber, crisp gala apples, shallow-fried lemon pepper unchicken, a surprisingly and delightfully bluey havarti with dill, and lemon mustard vinaigrette with a touch of thyme honey.
And coffee.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Polish Country Breakfast
As I sit here in my underwear eating a box of Nutter Butters that miss N. foolishly brought over, my mind turns to breakfasts past.
This summer, after being on tour in Poland and Russia, I was fortunate enough to be able to stop by my Aunt and Uncle's summer home in the north of Poland for a few days. Not only was this an opportunity to revisit the happy place of my childhood, but also to experience a couple days of great breakfasts.
This is how it went. I would wake up around 9 or ten, much later than everyone else. I would stumble upstairs into the morning light, and be greeted with a fully laden breakfast table, the contents of which were pretty much just carried upstairs from my aunt's home canning station in the basement.
We had a couple of her jams in play while I was there, including one made from "czeremhy," which even my father, a linguist and professional Polish-English translator, couldn't really identify an English equivalent for (subsequent internet search provides "bird-cherries" [?]). Turns out my aunt was growing them next to the house. The preserves were wickedly tart, something similar to black currant. Good luck getting this anywhere but at your Polish Aunt's house. She was also really proud of her commercial pectin-free raspberry preserves. Made from local raspberries.
Other breakfast items included a small jar of unprocessed honey I had bought from the beekeeper himself at a market in the nearest village, some home-made cheese called (rough translation) "stinker" with fresh chives, delicious fresh baked rolls, farmer's cheese, and sometimes even scrambled farm fresh eggs with dill and just-picked-yesterday-by-my-uncle chanterelles. Delicious. Oh, and fresh blueberries I picked from the patch I found down by the creek.
After breakfast we would usually sit around talking shit for a couple hours, or help my uncle rebuild his fence.
And then, every day, once my breakfast was two hours behind me, I'd run to the lake and take a swim in the clear cold water, the sound of the wind in the pines mixing tranquilly with the overweight lifeguard's copy of Legend.
wssshhhhhheylittlesistersshhhhhhhhdontshednotearssshhhhhhh
This summer, after being on tour in Poland and Russia, I was fortunate enough to be able to stop by my Aunt and Uncle's summer home in the north of Poland for a few days. Not only was this an opportunity to revisit the happy place of my childhood, but also to experience a couple days of great breakfasts.
This is how it went. I would wake up around 9 or ten, much later than everyone else. I would stumble upstairs into the morning light, and be greeted with a fully laden breakfast table, the contents of which were pretty much just carried upstairs from my aunt's home canning station in the basement.
We had a couple of her jams in play while I was there, including one made from "czeremhy," which even my father, a linguist and professional Polish-English translator, couldn't really identify an English equivalent for (subsequent internet search provides "bird-cherries" [?]). Turns out my aunt was growing them next to the house. The preserves were wickedly tart, something similar to black currant. Good luck getting this anywhere but at your Polish Aunt's house. She was also really proud of her commercial pectin-free raspberry preserves. Made from local raspberries.
Other breakfast items included a small jar of unprocessed honey I had bought from the beekeeper himself at a market in the nearest village, some home-made cheese called (rough translation) "stinker" with fresh chives, delicious fresh baked rolls, farmer's cheese, and sometimes even scrambled farm fresh eggs with dill and just-picked-yesterday-by-my-uncle chanterelles. Delicious. Oh, and fresh blueberries I picked from the patch I found down by the creek.
After breakfast we would usually sit around talking shit for a couple hours, or help my uncle rebuild his fence.
And then, every day, once my breakfast was two hours behind me, I'd run to the lake and take a swim in the clear cold water, the sound of the wind in the pines mixing tranquilly with the overweight lifeguard's copy of Legend.
wssshhhhhheylittlesistersshhhhhhhhdontshednotearssshhhhhhh
Friday, September 11, 2009
Pathetic Breakfast
Ran out of peanut butter yesterday.
Today's breakfast was two spinach and vegetable flour tortillas that my old roommate left behind when he moved last week. It's not clear how old they were, but in the absence of carbon dating technology, my mouth suggests between 50 and 60 thousand years. I sprinkled the last of the Sargento Taco cheese blend on each one, and topped one with the last drop of chipotle salsa, and the other with the last two jalapeno slices. My mouth is hot and my stomach is no longer digesting itself. Probably I will have deeper regrets in two to three hours.
If I don't get to a grocery store soon, breakfast tomorrow will probably be wet cardboard and hot sauce.
Today's breakfast was two spinach and vegetable flour tortillas that my old roommate left behind when he moved last week. It's not clear how old they were, but in the absence of carbon dating technology, my mouth suggests between 50 and 60 thousand years. I sprinkled the last of the Sargento Taco cheese blend on each one, and topped one with the last drop of chipotle salsa, and the other with the last two jalapeno slices. My mouth is hot and my stomach is no longer digesting itself. Probably I will have deeper regrets in two to three hours.
If I don't get to a grocery store soon, breakfast tomorrow will probably be wet cardboard and hot sauce.
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