The Divine Italian made me breakfast this morning. It was in accordance with the yearly honor of the day when I made my first squalling appearance upon this planet. Let's just say I haven't quite reached the age of that celebrity who adopted a baby from Malawi, but am definitely older than that other celebrity who adopted babies from Cambodia, Vietnam and Ethiopia. Next to it was a birthday card from my six year old, who is currently gripped with the "Bone" graphic novels by Jeff Smith.
For breakfast, I was presented with a delicious egg omelet, folded onto a heap of smoked salmon, topped with caviar and creme fraiche, all on a toasted seed bagel, with a steaming latte on the side (the way I like it, foamy and with one sugar).
For breakfast, I was presented with a delicious egg omelet, folded onto a heap of smoked salmon, topped with caviar and creme fraiche, all on a toasted seed bagel, with a steaming latte on the side (the way I like it, foamy and with one sugar). But what made it REALLY special is that he is currently on Day Five of the Master Cleanse, something he does for one week annually, starting the day after Thanksgiving. So there he was, cooking away, having only ingested lemonade with maple syrup and cayenne pepper for over 96 hours, while all those fragrant smells wafted up past his nose and threatened to reawaken his dormant appetite. If that's not a sacrificial gesture, I don't know what is.
And can I just say that the Italian is soo much nicer when he's fasting? He becomes like a Zen master or something. Calm, serene, and peaceful -- probably because he's weak, tired and has no energy to argue. Whatever. I like it. I asked him today if he could go without food for another week. I thought I caught a glimpse of Bobby Sands in his eyes, so I backed off.