My brother flew up on Sunday, leaving the entire week surrounding Thanksgiving to loiter around Mama's house and even become quite acquainted with the 255 bus route to Seattle. I really wanted him and Wifey to stay at my apartment for a night, so we all met up at Pike Place Market on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The meeting venue was a terrible idea, but not mine. Seattlelites and tourists swarmed the market, soaking up precious sunshine vitamins, filling up time on a non-work day with family approved activities. Trying to walk through the interior stalls made me feel like a herding animal. Oof! And then we all got separated, so I missed the best part when Wifey was chased by a man with a mean-looking monkfish and shrieked so loud the whole market could hear. It was Wifey's first trip to Seattle, so the market trip was basically obligatory, but the produce vendors were lost among the overwhelming crowds and I wished we'd saved the tourist trip for another day. I was happy to head back to my apartment and watch the 2004 version of Helter Skelter (inferior to the 1976 version, just for the record).
In the morning, after I did some writing and Todd finished his prayers, we visited Top Pot for caffeine and cake, letting Wifey slept in. We dunked with fervor, favoring the blueberry bullseye over the cinnamon-sugar doughnut, lingering at our rickety table surrounded by books. Hunger tided over, we ventured to the grocery store to procure ingredients for a big American breakfast. Back in my kitchen, just large enough for the two of us to cook together, we leisurely prepared for the day's feast, lunch really for everyone but Wifey.
I set up two stations and we quickly fell into a pattern. Todd chopped a yellow onion as I scrubbed my little German Butterball potatoes. He chopped herbs as I flipped the quartered potatoes in hot oil, gently willing them to develop a reddish brown crust on each side. Todd cut up bananas and apples, coated them in plain yogurt, blackberry honey and cinnamon, and served them with apple-cinnamon granola on the side.
"How many eggs, Luce?" he asked as he fingered the large duck eggs in my fridge. I had bought them at the Ballard market the day he arrived, just before the homecoming lunch at Bastille. It's not so much a homecoming, I guess, as a visit, though I like to pretend that Seattle is my brother's home in part, even if only because I live here.
"Four or five," I said, peeking over to see how large they were. "Four," I confirmed, eyeing the eggs he hefted in each palm. We debated over the best bowl, and I assured him that the high sides of my small metal Rosle bowl would prove sufficient. The second egg had two yellow-orange yolks, each fully formed and then stuck together, leaving very little room for whites. The third egg was a twinsy, too! reminding me of an MFK Fisher quote. I declared it a good omen and was reminded of an MFK Fisher quote. "One of the most private things in the world," she said, "is an an egg before it is broken." Another favorite of mine is "first we eat, then we do everything else."
I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!
Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.
"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.
I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!
Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.
"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.
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