sunday breakfast

It’s not too often I will make a breakfast request. As I’m rarely the one working the stove on Sunday morning, I typically roll with whatever I’m given – and I like it.

With the exception of two dozen West coast bivalves, Saturday was pretty disastisfying on the culinary front. I didn’t really want the fried eggs at brunch. The kale salad was too acidic. The mushrooms on the flatbread were too meaty. I felt like little Red Riding Hood, but in denim.

So Sunday morning, I made a request. A girl can only go so many hours ingesting calories that just aren’t doing it. I wanted a breakfast sandwich. A sandwich of substance, something with meat, something to stick to my bones.

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And that’s what I had – pan fried turkey, cheese, egg and a healthy slap of butter on both sides of the bread. Paula and I have debated the merits of adding a roast tomato, which is something I was very much in favor of. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, especially well-fed beggars.

Oh, and then the day ended with this beaut.

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More Sundays should end with oversized bowls of champagne.

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