I skipped into the kitchen, brewed a big French press and scurried back to bed, cook books scattered over the covers, laptop at the ready, coffee steaming on the bedside table. It was time for some serious planning.
This week I crave cooking. I want to bake something monumental and frivolous, something girly as hell with satiny frosting and colours and sprinkles and glitter. I want to buy half a dozen types of fish and brew a bouillabaisse that makes me weep as if I were an exiled Marseillaise. I want to make a thousand things I’ve never made before: donuts and croissants, sushi and tortellini, apple strudel, tamales, gravlax, and pieds et paquets. Doubtless I’m being over ambitious but hey, to hell with the details I’ll give it a whirl.
First on the list is eggs benedict which I have been craving in a deep, persistent way. It reminds me of America, of desheavelled, bleary eyed breakfasts with my friends after three hours of sleep. It reminds me of Seattle, of queuing up at Glo’s for hours, then waiting contentedly for another age until the hippies behind the stove serve up drool-worthy benedicts and hash browns in their own sweet, weed-warped time. I’ve made this brunch classic before, but in a thoroughly half-hearted way and it was far from perfect. This time I’m going the whole hog and making my own English muffins. So this evening, if all goes well, I’m going to have a stellar meal: eggs benedict enthroned on a freshly-baked muffin and guzzled down with a kicker bloody mary. Well it’s brunch time somewhere in the world, surely.
Right now my muffins are proving and I’m about to get started on the hollandaise. But first, a bloody mary is in order. So it’s back to the kitchen helm with a full report to follow.