|That visible sizzle on the edges? That's butter.|
This weekend was all about getting acquainted with my new apartment, especially the kitchen, deck, and back yard. I am a little bit in love with this new place. It has so much character, and it already feels homey, even though we don't have a couch and the living room and second bedroom are filled with boxes. It takes three keys to get in, because there are three doors in the front. We have a private entryway, which I know I will appreciate in a whole new way in the winter when our gigantic, ugly boots are caked with salt and snow and need a separate place to live. It's OK, boots. You can live in the entryway.
Not surprisingly, my favorite place in the apartment is the kitchen. It's in the back, and it is huge. There was an abandoned kitchen table in the basement that we were told we could have, and it fits right in the middle. Above the cupboards are these airy gallery spaces that are lit with little spotlights. There's a back door that opens onto a deck, which I can't wait to decorate with lanterns and lights. Every single meal that I have eaten at home since we moved in has been out on the deck. Then there's a little yard that gets tons of sun. All day on Saturday, as I was setting up the kitchen, I kept peeping out the door to note where the sun was shining, and I can say with near-certainty that tomatoes will be very, very happy back there. (Here I pause to daydream about juicy, fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes...)
The first meals I'm cooking in this kitchen have a weightiness about them. They feel like an audition, like a first date. Sunday morning, I woke up and walked into the kitchen, where my shiny sink smiled brightly at me, and I thought about what to make for breakfast. Muffins, I thought. I had a muffin last week with oatmeal, carrots, and raisins, and I wanted to try to recreate it. Then I remembered I ran out of raisins before we moved. Also, I was pretty hungry, and not feeling ready to use the oven. That feels like a second or third date kind of meal. So I settled on a simple stovetop breakfast: Fried Eggs on Toast.
|Right this way to deck and yard paradise!|
This is the ultimate simple meal, and with a big cup of fresh coffee, it was exactly what I wanted on Sunday morning, to take out on the deck and eat while reading A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg. Molly writes the blog Orangette, which is one of my favorites. I love the way she writes. She is a fellow food-loving redhead, and as I read I feel that she is a kindred spirit. Like this quote, from the chapter "Summer of Change":
"At the end of the day, when I was exhausted and fed up and unsure of everything, food was a certainty. It was what I thought about, what I cared about, what I wrote about, what got me out of bed in the morning. (I mean that. I get up for the sole purpose of eating breakfast. I don't know why else you would.)"
|My Dad got me that mug for Christmas. He rocks.|
Fried Eggs on Toast
As many eggs and slices of toast as there are people.
Butter, salt, and pepper.
Heat a nonstick skillet over medium heat and add the butter (just shy of a tablespoon per egg, don't be stingy), tilting the pan to melt and distribute. Crack an egg and place it gently in the pan, so the white doesn't spread out too much. Repeat with remaining eggs. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Depending on how well-done you like your eggs, fry for 1-2 minutes per side. I like them over medium on toast, because the yolk is still a little runny, but not so runny that it makes a mess (and you don't get to eat it unless you want to lick the plate). Put each egg on a slice of toast, and serve with apple slices, strong coffee, and a good book.