Yesterday morning, I put together some no-knead bread dough. It bubbled away quietly, silently, on the dining room table. Then, late in the afternoon, I was surfing around the internet and feeling the pangs of hunger again, when I stumbled upon a recipe for English muffins. Almost before I knew it I had a bowl of yeasty soft dough in my hands, scooping it into a hot non-stick frying pan (to take the place of the griddle I do not own, nor have the space for), leaving it to brown and cook through. Quickly I split one of the fresh muffins with a fork (as directed) and toasted it, lavishing it with butter when it was done. It was strangely tasteless. I thought about it, and realized that in my haste, I had forgotten to add salt. Whoops. Next time. I made a bacon sandwich with another English muffin, and lay back, content.
Sunday morning, and I had to work. But what to do about the rising bread dough? It was a teeming, bubbling, damp mess. I scraped it out onto a floured counter, added more flour until it was still amoeba-like but not a wet puddle. Dumped it all into a floured plastic container, and then shoved it into the fridge. It could wait. I had work to do, a wedding to go to, and it could just sit there until I came home that night. I made myself a cup of tea, and a fried egg sandwich on one of the failed English muffins, and headed out.
We were almost to Tacoma when K. had the bright idea of going to the chicken farm where she has bought eggs, several dozen at a time, twice now. But none of us had any money on us, so what were we going to do? R. called her brother, told him to lend us forty bucks. That would cover plenty of eggs. We were in business. Sooner than I thought possible I found myself driving through winding roads until we wound up at the first farm, where a small refrigerator held cartons of eggs (you paid according to an honor system) - both duck and chicken. We took all the duck eggs that were left, two dozen, and headed over to the second farm, which besides chickens had a kennel of corgis, a goat, and a baby calf. The corgi danced excitedly around me as I stood in the yard, in my favorite little black dress and heels that cost, well, lets just say many dozens of eggs. Goodness knows what the owner of the farm thought of the three of us, dressed for a wedding.
Later, we drive over to A.'s house for a simple dinner of rice, soy-sauce chicken, broccoli, and fried eggs, from the same farm where we just bought ten dozen eggs. They are eggs, bright orange yolks, which taste nothing like the ones you find at the supermarket. They are the best eggs I have ever eaten, and they are worth driving for miles and miles on a sunny Sunday afternoon in your favorite dress and best heels.