Plucking some chive and Italian parsley this morning with which to top my smooth, velvety scrambled eggs, eaten with buttered rye toast and Sumatran coffee, I pondered the food stories I might have addressed in recent days.
Or tried to. Oddly they have evaporated, after a brief and glorious camping trip in New Mexico's Pecos river region, our tent pitched beside a rushing stream at 8300 feet. While we observed fly fisher persons bringing in trout, we ate none, relying instead on tasty sushi from Trader Joe's, and on a TJ "felafel plate," a dry, tasteless loser of an entree, gotta say. And eggs, yet again.
Simple fare en plein air--a runny blue cheese, crackers, and a glass ( mug) of a decent Spanish blended red.
Guess I didn't miss much: Americans are still fat, Michelle Obama is deepening her interest in food and kids, and a wise Latina stays steady among the last gasps of Repub white guys in suits.
New: Engaging piece on Irish poet Seamus Heaney, whose musings on the potato we take delight in. He has just turned 70, and recalls an evening drinking poteen, home brew distilled from spuds, with another poet, Ted Hughes.