Sitting in my dining room with late morning sun warming the walls, I’m slowly eating soft cooked eggs, lightly sautéed mushrooms and beet greens. The deep orange yolks have run all over the wide bowl holding them and there’s nothing with which to sop them up except my spoon. These gorgeous gems come from a farm nearby where the chickens have the run of the place. The farmers, Beth and Lori, tell me that the chickens eat carrots, kale, bugs, and all the good things chickens are supposed to eat. The cats don't care where they came from. Pablo is climbing my legs and making swipes for the bowl. I ignore him. He gets more anxious as I get closer to the bottom, until I scrape as much as I can for myself then lay the bowl on the floor to be licked clean. Pablo doesn’t like to share, he pushes Leo away while Leo bites his friend’s ear. Then my reverie ends. This was a few years ago when Pablo was still alive.
I don’t have this breakfast every day. Some days I'm nibbling on leftovers from last night’s supper or sipping a green smoothie. Other days I want a raw nut porridge with chia seeds and coconut milk. Some people eat the same thing every morning – ubiquitous cold cereal or a bagel or a muffin. Some people don’t even eat breakfast, they just hit the road running with a jolt of caffeine. Predictable beginnings can be comforting, but I don’t yearn for a predictable day even if I get one every so often.
When I’m feeling crazy decadent because I'm letting life pull me into a sinkhole, I make a huge plate of almond-flour pancakes. They're made with those orange-yolked beauties, coconut milk or raw goat milk depending on my mood, and vanilla. The custardy layers are slathered with sweet butter and a bit of maple syrup from a woman named Cecile in Vermont. On mornings like this, I can’t seem to make enough or eat enough. Throughout the day I think about the feeling of custard melting in my mouth. What a preamble to the day. The sinkhole doesn’t seem so devastating anymore.