Topped and Toasted
Moments before Sunday supper, an impromptu olive oil tasting. The vessel, an old white wine bottle with a homemade label, corked. From Tuscany.
I sliced a bit of bread. Roberto poured just enough into the shallow center of an espresso saucer.
I hesitated, but knew the truth that had just landed on my tongue. "This is GOOD."
"This IS good." Roberto agreed. "Let's try the others."
Two more shallow pours into the centers of two more espresso saucers. One from the Chelsea market. Fruity with a peppery finish. One from the supermarket. Good, but mellow. A good salad oil.
"I'm starving." I said.
"I'm hungry too." He said.
I stood waiting at the top of the stairs.
"Should we eat now or grab something while we're out?" He asked.
"We should eat here. It will be crap if we go anywhere." I said.
Gently scrambled eggs on toasted bread with a slice of cheddar. Enough to push us through errands, just enough.
It was meant to be a tart. I had every intention of making this tart, but I made bruschetta instead.
A slather of dijon mustard.
Slices of cherry tomato.
Clumps, lovely clumps of goat cheese.
The toaster oven went through two cycles. Ding. Ding. I let it sit for a moment more before I opened the door. Just right.
Eaten quickly. Fuel for housecleaning. I should have made more.