Our little neighborhood breakfasty saturdays are getting to be sick.
Seriously sick.
I mean the joereillybreakfast was a thing of beauty:
Crepes filled with
Mango Mousse
Kiwi, cocunut, and Valrhona, or
(local) rhubarb, strawberry compote with cardamom and cloves
and little rose-bud potatoes in halves with a bit of bacon, sour cream and a scallion on each.
The later ones got messy (we decided they were the easier version; from Martha's little sister Tina's cookbook)
Always coffee, and usually danishes
After that, S's birthday breakfast with the Blueberries and granola with vanilla yougurt parfaits in champagne flutes and roasted potato/egg/bacon/cheddar bake was not so shabby either, but of course, this Saturday
Tom had to go and quiche his way into breakfast history (such a competitive guy) and send us all over the edge with some crazy nut and pumpkin bundt (yes, bundt) - the insanely georgeous weather helped, but it was breakfast of the gods
Next week we'll just have to blow it all up and start over at the bottom, like um...well...
See, that's the thing with breakfast. there is no bottom. (GrapeNuts, maybe)
But bacon and eggs and toast? Happy food. Real oatmeal with dried fruit? Yes! Pancakes? Pick me! Hash, uuunh hunh.
Toast and tea, leftover pie, cold pizza and warm beer...
Breakfast is beautiful
and a joy forever.
1 comment:
I'm not THAT competitive.
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