Appetite of Champions

You know what’s so completely unfair and annoying? My appetite. Many people, when they are upset or terribly stressed, can’t eat. They lose weight in all sorts of graceful, stressful and sorrowful ways. At least they have something to show for the shitty time they are having, right? Me? Nope. I am just the opposite. I eat. I don’t know what it would take for me to lose my appetite. Not illness, not stress (hello, dissertation), not heartache (not to sound dramatic). Those things just make me eat more, and eat with abandon. So now, after all the dissertation-writing nonsense, not only do I have a dent in my couch and a corresponding flat spot on my butt, I also have some gym time ahead of me.

Lest you think that I was dying a slow death by Cheetos the whole time I was writing… well, I sort of was. But this death was punctuated by episodes of food bliss. Among those, my new favorite breakfast – a breakfast sandwich. My favorite is not just any breakfast sandwich. This is THE breakfast sandwich, prepared by the supervisor himself. It makes waking up worthwhile, even if it’s already 11AM when you are out of bed.

So here is what you do. Take some good sliced bread and toast it. Fry eggs (a one-egger sandwich for me, a two-egger for those with bigger appetites and/or hands big enough to hold the ginormo sandwich) to over-medium in olive oil. You want the yolks still runny, but starting to thicken just a little. Layer eggs on the bread with slices of cheese (I can’t force you to use smoked cheddar, but I can tell you it won’t be THE breakfast sandwich without it), basil leaves, some form of breakfast pig product, like sausage or bacon (although I think prosciutto is the way to go), and top it with the key to the sandwich, almost as important as the smoked cheddar (or more so, if you listen to the supervisor himself) - tomato slices. Longest sentence ever? Check.


Now that you have assembled the king of all breakfast sandwiches, you have to eat it. This process involves a ritual of its own. Here’s the thing, the yolk is still liquidy (do it, it’s awesome) and when you squeeze the sandwich or bite into it, the (hot) yolk breaks and runs all over your hands and the plate. That’s the best part. Here comes the ritual. The rules are: 1) you can’t put the sandwich down once you start (because it will be an even bigger mess than the one you have in your hands) and 2) you dip the entire sandwich into the pooled yolk on the plate. Don’t be a sissy like me and tear off a piece of the bread to dip into the yolk or the supervisor will scold you, like he did me. I was ashamed. And then I went to the gym.