Do oofs. I mean, deux oeufs. Eggs over chicken pie filling topped with white cheddar and with fried mushrooms and polenta taking the place of toast (it becomes similar to cornbread).
Heldovers reconsidered into a new recombination for a fresh bright new morning, or summat. The surplus chicken pie filling includes experimental butternut squash, and it's still great. The polenta is from last night, here fried in seasoned butter. The mushrooms were starting a revolt in the refrigerator so I taught the traitors a lesson and fried them. They were wonderful.
My father, bless him, had the same breakfast for years on end, possibly thirty, I'm guessing maybe even more. Now that's regimentation for you. He put catsup on the eggs which gave me the creeps. I could see a few drops of Tabasco, habanero, or spoons of salsa, but not catsup. Apparently it's not uncommon. He never understood me wringing my face, clutching my throat as if gagging and making choking noises at the thought of putting catsup on the whites of eggs. If Brillat Savarin was correct in that you are what you eat, then my dad would be at least 1/3 bacon and eggs with toast and coffee.
Actually, what Savarin said was:
Dites-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai qui tu es.
"Tell me and I will tell you," but leave it to American translators to truncate the axiom of a man known for his sayings to something more pithy. We do it to Shakespeare, and we'll do it him.
So there you have it: eggs on chicken pot pie filling.
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