This morning L. texted me a link to “11 engagement photos that make you happy you’re single,” and we chatted about my recent discovery that drinking a mix of lime juice, honey, salt and plum vinegar dramatically increased my endurance while skating this week. “I wish I could find a miracle recipe for dieting,” I texted her. “Add cayenne pepper,” she wrote back.
Then I went into the kitchen to make breakfast, thinking: I want bacon. I want mozzarella cheese. I want sautéed baby squash and garlic and I want an egg on top. And because no one is watching me and telling me what I can or can’t have, I made exactly that. I baked the bacon, pulled it out and put sliced baby squash and garlic in the bacon fat. Salted it. Baked it. Cracked an egg on my griddle, sliced some tomatoes and some mozzarella. Took one of those cheap mini-baguettes out of the freezer that I keep there for emergencies and briefly warmed it in the oven. Then I pulled it out, sliced it, lathered it with tomato jam (I cannot emphasize how much you want this in your larder), topped it with mozzarella and put it in the broiler for not very long.
Then, as I was putting together my breakfast sandwich, and thinking how some lucky member of the opposite sex could be sharing this wondrous thing with me – especially because I always make enough for two – the plate promptly slipped from my hands and landed on the floor, upside down. Half of it managed to slide down my shirt in my effort to save it. I was crying inside, but I pulled myself together. After all, I had enough for two.
After wiping the bits of fried egg off the linoleum, I re-plated my sandwich, dusted it with cayenne pepper for good dietary measure and sat down to eat – reassured by the truism that good things do come to those who wait.