Dear butter, we’re taking a break. I love you, just not in summer. You’re either too soft or too hard. Or too much.
For breakfast this morning, I was craving a poached egg. Over toast. Just not buttered toast. No. Not on a morning when it was 70 degrees at seven a.m.
So while the bread was toasting and water heating for the egg, I poured about a tablespoon of olive oil onto a plate, then rolled the plate around in my hands to distribute it sort of evenly. I sprinkled it with a dash of sea salt.
I palmed an almost embarrassingly tumescent tomato, then cut a couple of slices from it. When the toast was toasted, I set it in the olive oil, kissed it with a bit more olive oil, and draped the tomatoes over it. Their juices dripped into the toast while water continued heating.
The water came to a gentle simmer. I added a pinch of sea salt* and slipped the egg into it. It cooked for just a couple of minutes, really just long enough to tenderly set the white and the membrane over the yolk.
A slotted spoon lifted the egg out of the water, let it drain for a few seconds, then eased it onto the tomatoes. Who doesn’t have a bounty of basil these days? I ribboned some leaves into a chiffonade**, a dash of sea salt went over the top, and some fresh cracks of pepper followed.
Seven-fifteen, and I’d already expended all the effort and experienced all the heat I intended for the day. Who says perfection doesn’t exist?
Note to self: Find some shade. Sit still. Read a good book.
Butter, I’ll see you in October.