January 24, 2013
On Wednesday I poured a mix of quinoa, ceci and green onion into a small, unassuming pan. A creation from the night before with loads of black pepper, a little salt and a generous splash of extra virgin olive oil.
I heated the pan over a low flame, topped with the lid from another pot. A lid of glass with a tiny whole that allows steam to escape.
The bottom of the mix of quinoa, ceci and green onion crisped while I cracked a large egg into a tiny bowl.
Little pops and cracks. Ah yes. Little pops and cracks. The sound (the smell) of toasting quinoa and ceci.
I lift the pan to silence the singing a bit. Shake it with a gifted hand (I do flatter myself). Ready and steady for the egg. One large egg. It's gorgeous yolk wobbling. Perky and timid all at once. It lay down so gently. The heat keeping the white from spreading haphazardly.
And so, covered it sat on low. With a green hand knit pot holder, folded in half, covering the tiny whole that allows steam to escape. Moments away from the table.
I imagine it would have been perfectly nice with a small glass of red wine and a hunk of cheese sitting alongside a hunk of bread, but I ate it with half an avocado coated with more black pepper than seems fit and a glass of water.