Sharing stories of food stories we love.
Today I thought we’d talk a little bit about breakfast. You’re okay with that, right? You seem like someone who is happy to order the croissant and the baguette, and I like that about you.
Before we go on, let’s get this whole “most important meal of the day” business out of the way. I know it is. I do. But I feel more of an emotional connection with dinner, and that’s just how it’s going to be. You can’t choose who you love, you know?
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I’m sorry for the radio silence here lately. You see, there’s only so much typing you can do with a taco in one hand and a margarita in the other, you know?
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Things I love: Almond butter studded with chewy bits of crystallized ginger. Very good, intensely dark chocolate, the sort that melts into velvety bitterness on your tongue. Vermont maple syrup, the real deal that glows amber in the bottle and tastes like you're standing outside in the crisp air, wearing Carhartts, breathing deeply in a stand of fir trees. Crisp rice cereal. The crunch of it, the way I like to add it to a bowl, pour cold skim milk over it, then float a layer of heavy cream on top. Oh, you think that defeats the point of skim milk? I think you're missing the point. (Pure pleasure, that's the point.)
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It's not exactly bright outside. Rain is streaming down past my window; the sky is growing gloomier by the minute.
A string of warm days has melted most of the snow in the city, leaving the sidewalks wet and icy. Stepping off the curb means dunking your foot into a rivulet of cold, dirty slush.
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Some days I'm on the precipice of tears all day for no discernible reason. Just teetering on the knife's edge of crying: bursting into chest-heaving sobs, or maybe those quiet tears that trace their way slowly down your cheek. There's no source, just a swelling tide of emotion that threatens to swamp you. It only needs a tiny push to spring forth. Spilling my salad accidentally could make me weep. Or putting on the laundry only to forget it and discover the sodden, wet mass of it hours later in the machine. Or seeing a stray baby-sized mitten on the side of the park path.
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