Breakfast of Champignons
As summer draws to an end all over Europe the coming of Autumn the shortening of the days and the season of mists heralds the beginning of the mushroom season. Varieties abound on groaning market stalls and intrepid travellers begin their post-orgasmic days with a wild fungus omelette.
xxxWell, at least one did.
xxxAnd back in the UK, even the supermarket, shed-grown, closed-cap, flavour-challenged button is viewed with trepidation by some.
You hung up on me
What were you up to?
No, what really?
Wow. Book that good?
Nonono. Thinking of you
Tell me more. Skype
After brekky. Just warming pan
Wild mushroom omelette
Shit. Be careful
Haha market bought not foraged!
Still, don’t poison yourself
Not before you tell me more about the wanking anyway
I’ll try not to. It’s a bloody nasty way to go
I prefer my morts petit
Tell you later. Small black fungi need frying
xxxButter foaming in the pan, Epifanea threw in the morels, mixed with a coarsely chopped porcini. Porcino, if there’s just the one? Whatever.
xxxShe tossed the mixture in the pan a couple of times, added a splash of lemon juice, a light sprinkling of dried mixed herbs and black pepper, before sliding them out onto a plate, keeping back as much of the fat as she could.
xxxWith the heat on high, she poured in the pair of eggs she’d previously beaten together, salted and peppered. Flicking down the lever that dropped two slices of sourdough into the toaster with one hand, she emptied the eggs into the pan with the other. Then she took up the spatula and started gathering the mixture to the centre, allowing the runny top layer to spread and cook at the periphery. While there was still a thin stratum of runny egg on top, she tipped the mushrooms onto one half and expertly folded the other over it.
xxxLetting this cook (on a slightly lower heat) gave her time to pour a little orange juice into a tall flute and top it up from the quarter bottle of sparkling wine she’d bought herself as a treat. A treat she’d intended to save for her last evening away, a farewell to the mainland or an anticipation of homecoming, but after the previous night, she felt she deserved an extra helping of self-pampering.
xxxWhat better way to start a day?
xxxShe flipped the omelette over as the toast popped up, as if begging to be buttered. She’d been delighted to find a heart-shaped pastry cutter in the drawer; she was now able to send him a most romantic photograph of an omelette in rich yellow, flanked by two hearts of golden toast oozing butter.
xxxAnd then to tip most unromantically the outer segments of each slice on top before tucking in.
xxx“Le petit mort is what French people call an orgasm.”
xxx“Really? Always said they were weird.”
xxxIt was good seeing him again. She felt a lot more relaxed talking to him now.
xxx“That omelette was yummy!”
xxx“Looked it, apart from the fungus. And what’s that? Buck’s fizz?”
xxx“Buck’s fizz, mimosa, whatever. S’not real champers. Local sparkling brew. And carton juice. Not bad. We’ll have the real thing when I get back. How’s you?”
xxx“Not so bad. You had a good night then?”
xxx“Tee hee, yes, it was lovely.”
xxx“Thinking of me, were you?”
xxx“Absolutely. What else?”
xxx“Well, I thought maybe you were getting off on Swedish masseuses and voyeurism.”
xxx“Bloody hell, how did … ?”
xxx“Come on; you didn’t think I’d be able to resist finding a copy of Dinners of Desire, did you?”
xxx“Picnics of Passion!”
xxx“Oh yeah. I actually have that one too, to be honest.”
xxx“Is that for real? Don’t tell me you have Lunches of Lust as well.”
xxxHe laughed. A lot. In fact she thought he’d doubled up with laughter, until he straightened up to show the three books he’d just picked up from the coffee table.
xxx“Bloody hell. I was making that up.”
xxx“That’s what you thought. There’s a whole series. There isn’t a Buffets of Bonking, you’ll be glad to hear.”
xxx“Thank fuck for that. So, what do you think of them?”
xxx“I’d be lying if I said they hadn’t had an effect, but even I think the writing’s crap.”
xxx“True. I didn’t think it was even affecting me, but I did find my gusset was getting soggy.”
xxx“Too much information alert.”
xxx“Oh dear, getting prudish are we? Women not allowed locker-room bants?”
xxx“No, only joking. Personally though I prefer visual stimulation. And yeah, I sort of feel getting your gusset soggy should be my job, not something I wish to subcontract to Sidonie Gabrielle.”
xxx“If that is her real name.”
xxx“Yeah, probably some bloke called Sid Gabriel. So — what we gonna do now?”
xxxHe looked at her suggestively from the screen.
xxx“Well, I’m going to wash the breakfast things and get my stuff together. I have a coach to catch and then a ferry.”
xxxHe looked disappointed but said nothing.
xxx“Come on. I’ll be there in a few days, and believe me I’ll be ready for some red hot loving.”
xxx“Should I book a blonde masseuse?”
xxx“Bog off! You’re all the masseur I need, and chef, and stud, all rolled into one. I might just lock us in the flat and hide the key for a few days. That ‘picnic’ was just an appetiser.”
xxx“Now you’re talking. OK, go get that ferry, send pics of sea, sun, sights and food. I’ll wait for the real stuff when you’re back and live in person.”
xxx“You’re learning. Bye.”
xxx“Yeah, right. Cheers — Fuck me!”
xxxEppy had whipped open her bathrobe a second before she ended the session.
xxx“Will do, sweetie,” she said. “Will do indeed.”