I am going to start this post with an apology. A big fat
sorry for neglecting the blog and leaving you all in the dark on the
particularly important musings on what I have been scoffing with my afternoon
tea or hiding in my under-the-bed box of random crockery for more time than is
really acceptable. I could blame the sunshine (more feasible this year than
last, I suppose), or perhaps my recent purchase of a new pair of trainers and gym
membership that has led me to break a sweat for the first time since year 6
sports day. Or, I could just face the brutally honest music that has not been
blaring from my laptop as I have been avoiding putting any words to virtual
paper and tell the truth; I mean, the trainers have not been that busy- I have simply been a little teeny
bit lazy of late...
But, let’s not dwell on the past; I am back, and as means of
apology for my lack of commitment, I am going to kick off this post with some
deep and meaningful questions to really
get you all thinking. Only joking, you don’t need that on a Sunday; but I would
like to air a few concerns about whether my car-boot-sale-loving, quilt
stitching (yes, really) 24-year-(supposedly)-young life is entirely normal. I
have based my concerns on a few tendancies that seem to have emerged in the
past 6 months, tendancies that seem to rear their blue-rinsed, permed heads on Sundays
more than any other day of the week. Of course, a preference I share with all
my Grandparents (there are a few, it seems) the day that signals guilt-free
lie-ins, papers in plastic wrappings, roast potatoes and early mornings spent riffling
through people’s old junk in fields across the land is without a doubt the day
for me.
And herein lies my concerns. Take this morning. I started the
day, as you do, furiously scrubbing the labels of two rosé bottles that I was
adamant were to be brought all the way back from my recent holiday in Brittany
to be transformed in to olive oil decanters. The fact that I do not yet own a
house, let alone any olive oil is, obviously, beside the point; as is that fact
that I also insisted on fragrancing my boyfriends overstuffed car with a
Camembert box, minus any actual cheese but with a very distinctive lingering aroma,
just because I took a fancy to the label. Normal? I’m not so sure.
But that’s not all, after the scrubbing had ceased, and a
nice cup of tea had soothed my nerves; I trekked, old carrier bag and purse of
10p coins in hand to the car boot sale down the road. Pennies worth of floral
plates later I was happy, but still left wondering if I have somehow flicked
the switch on my biological clock to dog years and am in fact 109 years old.
And my worries about my old-age pensioner inclinations do
not stop there. What other 24 year old gets excited when LOOK magazine declares that the ‘Granny Sandal’ is the new Fashionista
footwear of choice (I already have several pairs of said sandals, one of which are
so convincingly on-trend that my Mum started making my ‘Grandma’ a cup of tea
as soon as she saw them next to the door.) Then there is the fact I have had to
turn off the Radio 1 breakfast show on the way to work, my all consuming love
of tea and cake, my insistence on wearing midi-skirts even though I know my
boyfriend hates them with as much passion as he hates the granny-shoes and any
kind of second-hand floral crockery. Is any of this actually, you know, alright??
But what I really want to talk about (so excuse all the
wittering on, it must be my age...) is my obsession with breakfast. Is it ok
that even before the last spoonful of muesli has left the bowl I am planning my
next morning meal? Is it really allowed that my favourite thing is sitting down
with the crossword, a mug of tea as big as my face and a bacon sandwich ready
and waiting to soak up any whisper of overnight hunger, at 24 years old?
Well, whatever, I don’t care...Just as Sunday is my
favourite day of the week; breakfast is without a doubt my favourite meal of
the day. I’m sure I am not alone in revelling in those magical mornings when
there is time to stew over some French toast, or dreamily dunk those soldiers
in to a perfectly boiled egg yolk, slowly and deliciously apologising to your
body for all those bad glasses of wine you seemed to consume the night before
(See, not so OAP). Honestly, I would eat toast and peanut butter at every meal
if it was allowed. I have no doubt that if the Breakfast Club actually did what
it says on the tin I would be first on the list to sign up- After all, there is
very little else that makes turning off the electric blanket and getting out of
bed worth all the effort.
Thankfully, one of my absolute favourite breakfast recipes
is about as far from meals-on-wheels as you can get. A pretty wicked hangover
cure for those days when a fry-up is just no cutting it and your sweet tooth is
winning the battle of the breakfast table, this honey scented Brioche French
toast, crowned with glistening roasted apricots and speckled with flaked almonds
is almost enough to transport you, spoon in hand, to the whitewashed rooftop of
a Greek island villa. But if you are not quite that lucky, and the never ending
sky that accompanies your breakfast is more an English shade of grey that a sun-soaked
azure blue, one whiff of vanilla spiced apricots, drenched in honey and sitting
atop the fluffiest French toast will make everything seem that little bit brighter.
Make the roasted apricots the night before, and your path to
a sunnier morn and a clearer head will be on the table in no time. All you
will need to do is fry the egg soaked brioche, pile the sticky apricots, big pillows
of creamy, gorgeously rich Greek yoghurt, honey and toasted almonds in to bowls,
gather around some friends and get stuck in. Just what a Sunday morning calls
for...
PS. Don’t worry too
much about me; I am moving to London in 2 weeks so will endeavour to curb my
car-booty habit and turn off Countryfile asap. Perhaps I will find all
those elusive, sandal wearing Fashionistas and finally
not be the only person in the same shoes as Vera from next door and the rest
of the local bowls club...
Brioche French
Toast with Honey, Apricots and Almonds
2 tins halved apricots in juice, drained
2 tbsp honey
1 cinnamon stick
1 vanilla pod
4 thick slices of Brioche
3 eggs
600ml milk
1tbsp caster sugar
Zest of 1 lemon
Greek yoghurt and a handful of toasted almonds, to serve
-
Preheat the oven to
180oc
To make the spiced apricots; arrange the halved fruit in a
dish, drizzle with the honey and add the cinnamon stick and split vanilla pod.
Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, until the fragrant spices have
infused and the fruit is soft.
Meanwhile, make the French toast. In a bowl, beat the eggs
and milk until evenly mixed, before stirring in the sugar and lemon zest.
Dip each piece of bread into the eggy mixture, before frying
in a hot saucepan and a little butter. Turn when golden, after about 5 minutes,
and cook until evenly coloured.
To serve; top the toast with the baked apricots, a spoonful
of yoghurt, some chopped almonds and a little honey.
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