O.’s applying chapstick to his chin, K.’s in the kitchen cooking eggs to order, I’m counting down to hot coffee, eating pineapple chunks out of a bowl on the table. I can’t remember ever answering so many questions about my ideal fried egg. I didn’t even know I had preferences at that granularity. Those two on the plate were pretty close, just a few seconds more on the yolk to harden up the white around it.
January 29, 2012
Fried eggs, toast, pineapple, and coffee
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January 1, 2012
Fried eggs, toast, and bacon
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S. fried my eggs hard just like I like them, slid them into a large shallow bowl because all the plates were dirty, dropped in four slices of bacon and two slices of toast, and urged the butter. Cheese toast with really good butter is amazing. He was right.
December 9, 2011
Eggs, toast, home fries, and bacon
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Then B. called, we were both near campus, and we both had to get to Cobble Hill. What were the chances? So she picked me up in her car and drove me to Cobble Hill and we ate breakfast in a restaurant and gossiped about libraries.
September 5, 2011
Greek omelet with home fries and toast
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We took exit 24 off the Thruway to 9W, 4.5 miles to Ravena where I promptly got us lost, threw up my hands, A. took over, guided us back to 9W to the Ravena Diner. (Hint: just stay on 9W.) The part of the sign with the name was gone, but the references to steaks and chops were a giveaway. I got breakfast-all-day, so did A. and C., E. broke, a tuna melt and a small soup. She also grabbed a stack of the local paper. I knew you’d probably want to read this.
August 29, 2011
Poached eggs on toast and an ice cream cone
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S. and I sat on a stone bench in front of the public library, I was fat and happy and filled with poached eggs on toast and an ice cream cone, skin hot because the sun was shining on it not just because it was hot, I kept forgetting what day it was. Monday? Sunday? Tuesday? By then it had become a running joke I was blaming on S., It’s Monday, you’re welcome. When is the weather so beautiful I forget the time?
March 14, 2011
Chickpea and tomato stew redux, plus toast
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Threw down a bowl of chickpeas in relaxed ease, last of those edits done, a week of break just lingering in front of me. And then I wanted some toast so I just toasted some. I think that’s what we call freedom.
February 5, 2011
This Black Keys record is even better sated. I don’t need to get steady, know just how I feel. Boys with guitars, will I ever outgrow this swanning around my apartment with the volume turned up phase? I’m the sixteen year old girl I never really was. (Flashback: endless lunchtime meetings to change our name from Students for Environmental Awareness to Students for Environmental Action, because really what we want is action. Awareness is not enough!) Just ate a little since pre-theater dinner later is retiree-early and I intend to eat my fill.
January 1, 2011
Eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, toast
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We’re in our natural habitat said K. as we ordered twin All American Slams (no sausage, all bacon, but K. ordered a biscuit) at the Denny’s next to the New Orleans airport. I ordered a set of something called Pancake Puppies for the table, but our server told us the chef would have to make the batter from scratch so we did without. I was still totally shaken from the gnarly landing, describing it over and over again, telling K. to please, if that ever happens, just know I had a good life and whatever I feel it won’t be anything I can’t handle all earnest and true. A man at the table next to us ordered a prime rib omelette, but was told the manager says we don’t have a button for that. We were L.O.L.ing. Gonna be a good week.
July 23, 2010
Eggs with bacon, toast, and potatoes
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C. and I ordered the same thing, and I think we both felt the same about–really hungry, and like tabasco would make it better. Nothing but good times in front of us, really. Dentist for C., new couch for me, the high, high life.
July 11, 2010
Rye toast with cheese, hummus, and tomatoes, plus an apple
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Everybody’s poking around here today, doing this and that, wandering through the living room where I’m sitting and reading the paper, Dad tells me a story about 40 years ago in L.A., the bloody riots and terrible police (plus ca change…), C. laughs at some small story, tells me she’s going back upstairs. I cobbled a little light something out of what I could find in the refrigerator. Some days feel more like waiting.
