Sunday morning. Awake, but why? Winter. Cold, shivering, dim. Hungry.
Kitchen. Espresso machine, strong long-black. Better...slightly.
Courtyard. Colder still, biting breeze. Pot of herbs, struggling, sparse. But thyme, flat-leaf parsley.
Stove. Ignite. Free-range eggs, dollop of milk, whisk, square of butter. Wooden spoon. Gentle yellow curds. Tasmanian smoke-cured salmon, hand shred. Add off heat.
Polenta left-overs, set but un-formed. Tumble in pan, crispy highlights.
Whole-grain toast. Crack of pepper. Scatter of herbs.
Twin suns orbiting the plate. Gone, in a flash. Burp.
Yawn. Bed, duvet, warm, soft. Dozing, sleep.
Scrambled eggs with Smoked Atlantic Salmon on Toast, Refried Polenta.