It’s not a pretty dish, but it’s a delicious one. Perfect for brunch (or elevenses) and majorly yummy. It’s easy, too! Just be sure to sharpen your knives and your knife skills before slicing those potatoes ;)
6 large red potatoes 2 tablespoons olive oil Salt and pepper to taste 3-4 slices bacon, cut into ½ inch slices 4-6 green onions, sliced into ¼ inch bits 5 ounces (140 g) crumbled cheese (feta is a good substitute for homemade cheese) 5 eggs 2 tablespoons milk ½ teaspoon salt
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with tinfoil.
Scrub the potatoes and then slice as thinly as you can. Lay them on the cookie sheet and drizzle the olive oil over the top. Toss to coat the potatoes with the oil, and salt and pepper generously to coat. Spread the potatoes evenly on the pan and then cook for 30-35 minutes, flipping them over halfway through. When they’re almost tender, set them aside to cool for a few minutes and leave the oven on.
While the potatoes are cooling, put the diced bacon in a cast iron or other oven-proof skillet. Cook until slightly crispy, then drain the bacon bits on a paper towel, leaving the grease in the pan. Depending on how greasy your bacon was, you may want to drain a little out - I left about 3 Tablespoons of bacon grease in the pan.
Let it cool for a minute or two, then add the potatoes to the skillet and stir to coat. Sprinkle the bacon bits, the green onions and feta over the potatoes.
Whisk together the eggs, milk and salt, and pour over the potatoes. Cover the skillet with foil and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the foil and bake another 15 minutes more, until the eggs are set.
Woke up groggy, an hour late to the daily flirtation between sunrise and the windowpanes. I shuffled into my sweatshirt and swam down the hill, three blocks or so. Miles was grinning, frying bacon in a cast iron skillet, and managing to butter six slices of toast all at once.
We plopped into the nook, pouring over Miles’ latest sketches and debating the merit of our tattered books, Philip K. Dick’s Time Out of Joint for him and my copy of Dan Simmon’s Hyperion. Three minutes and forty five seconds into our morning murmurings, Miles plunged the french press and we fussed over the steamy rims of our respective ceramic mug.
Into this picturesque morning pranced the panicked urge to bottle such a moment. I should add this song and loop it twenty-five times to keep the magic! I should pull out my phone and take a photograph of Miles! Photographs of food! Photographs of coffee! Photographs of the sun through the window at seven forty-five am!
After a few breathing exercises, I sat on my hands and let the moment be what it was. It’s like this to my mind: If you love to watch a butterfly strolling through the first notes of spring, you don’t stick a pin in her and display her on your wall. So why do it with your life, with memory?
You can’t go back, no matter what the photograph promised you. Oh, I know what it’s like to soak in memory. Most of my life has been lost to daydreaming what once was, or what could be.
So I force myself to sit still, I gently tease the squirming child within. I listen, however reluctantly, to the murmur wrapped all in steam from my coffee mug: “Breathe, dreamer. Breathe.”
Scott: “Y/N, look at this one.” Scott’s deep voice exclaimed; his athletic frame stood in front of a display model of an espresso stained crib and changing station combo, strong hands shaking the frame. He’d just received his paycheck from Deaton, surprising you with a trip to Babies “R” Us. “It’s definitely safe.” He nodded in approval, lowering his voice as he continued. “I used a tiny bit of wolf strength on it.” The muted thud of the espresso stained pine drawer sliding closed interrupted the complacent silence, Scott squinted his pleasant dark chocolate irises reading the fine print typed on the sales tag. “Babe, it comes in white and cherry if you don’t like this one.” The fact that the true alpha took surreal interest in the purchase of furniture for Noah’s room was heartwarming. He was going to be a protective and loving father. “I am going to tell the cashier we’re getting this.” He briefed with a proud handsome lopsided smirk, warm supple lips pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. “I’ll meet you by the car seats.”
It kills me how it’s all over the news that meat can literally cause cancer but people are still making excuses. “Lean red meat is still a great source of protein and iron,” says the news anchor. Hello, so are lentils… You don’t need meat to live, people, you really don’t. You’re better off without it.