Eggs in Purgatory. Ever have leftover marinara or arrabbiata? Heat the sauce, pour a thin layer into a shallow baking dish and crack in a couple eggs. Bake in a hot, 450 oven for 10 minutes for a soft yolk. Sprinkle with parmesan and some fresh herbs.
Champagne is a luxury for the unluxurious moment, the moment of monetary, or, worse, emotional poverty. When despair has tightened your throat so you can’t swallow anything, and you have to speak by hand signals. When no human comfort can reach you, and you must rely, helpless, on the benefience of the generous sound of pouring wine. When the kindest hand would be too heavy. The voice of sympathy, abrasive as a badly stroked cello. When the heartache you’ve always read about in the distance turns out to be your own. When love has been mistaken, gone, died. Champagne is for laughing-in-spite-of-your-tears, a shout of defiance, an act of faith, a promise of renewal. Champagne is best when your world is falling apart.