Ozzie Loves Omlettes

Ozzie loves Omlettes because every time I make one, during the flipping, a little puddle of egg lands on the floor.  Lately I've been expanding my interest, and hopefully, skill in preparing various Italian, French, and Mediterranean dishes.  My all time favorite dish from Italy is Chicken Piccatta.  I grew up eating French since my father lived in Paris during his time in the service.  It makes me smile to remember how involved he would be in the building of sauces and how attentive he was about the meat and vegetables.  He loved Julia Child because she translated so many mysterious processes that were until then, an exclusive secret of those who spoke the language.  I learned from him, standing at the stove, side by side, as he whipped eggs and melted real butter to glaze the pan for omlettes, and when he patiently stirred the wine as it reduced into a sauce that sent everyone into a famished state just from the aroma.  He made soup with a variety of vegetables he grew in his beautiful garden.  If anyone wants to know the real secret of how to stay thin and eat really really well, the answer is soup.  Growing up we dined on a variety of Dad's soup from a pot that seemed to never empty.  The great thing about soup is that it keeps getting tastier the longer it bubbles on the stove.  And the flavor and steaminess of broth always comforts one in a feeling of love and appreciation. 

This morning I dined with Ozzie, sharing an omlette layered with a divine slice of cheddar and a few bits of onion.  My friend from New Orleans had recently gifted us with a can of French Quarter coffee with chickory, so I was really feeling spoiled.  I love mornings better than any other part of the day.  Especially a balmy summer morning, when my windows are open to birdsong and the scent of blooms and dew soaked earth.  As day marches on, it is bound to bring a series of tasks and expectations.  But the morning is mine.