How committed am I to salad in the wake of the cheeseburger-and-a-half weekend?
This is breakfast salad. I had a little snuggle with Google on the topic of “breakfast salad” and determined that (a) it exists and (b) it requires poaching an egg, not in the “hand secretively under the hen” sense but in the “raw egg in hot water” sense.
This seemed like the moment to go with chealion’s recommendation of Saving Jane (listen — or not, as vids follow). The first thing you need to know about Saving Jane is… remember that Taylor Swift hit about “she’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers”? Saving Jane covered that territory earlier and better. The more grown-up music is even better.
All the pain in the world is in Marti Dodson’s voice. The guitar is barely there and barely needed.
We are going to compose ourselves and parboil a potato. Doing it in tears would make it far too salty. In an ideal universe, I would have gone to the store and bought a yam, but I’d recklessly purchased potatoes before trying to rebalance my carb intake and… these are, in fact, small potatoes.
Four minutes in the microwave should nuke the potatoes nicely. I then dropped the chunks into some hot olive oil, hoping to get a nice breakfast potato feel. The specks are lemon-garlic pepper, as this contains less salt than the magic Adobo seasoning.
And in go some frozen shrimp! These turn out to need less cooking time than the taters, but we can live with that. Meanwhile, I have my bag of baby European salad greens, and I’m tearing them away from their study of Lacan to be eaten.
Get the potatoes nicely browned, assemble the salad, and pour on a modest amount of dressing. I make vinegar-oil dressing because that’s all I know how to do. The real excitement is about to begin.
I hear the religious metaphors and agree those are the author’s intent, but it’d make one marvelous love song as well, if it’s true love on offer. And she’s doing it a cappella, with a feel on the added second voice of Appalachian folk songs.
This, meanwhile, is a watched pot. Predictably, it is not boiling.
It’s going to need to. Someday.
This is an egg. It is cracked. This is not desirable wabi sabi so much as a prelude to hot goings-on.
While we’re waiting for water to boil: Saving Jane started as largely acoustic and shifted toward alternative for its first important single. The core of the band is Dodson, rhythm guitarist Pat Buzzard, and drummer Dak Goodman, who met at summer camp (but not a summer camp where Rob Cavallo was braiding lanyards).
Into the water goes the egg!
We immediately see that this is not a cooperative egg that wraps itself obediently in its white and floats merrily. No, it is the Miss Havisham of eggs, trailing faded bits of white lace everywhere. Also, it bubbles. And pulsates. And extrudes odd white bits. I’m almost afraid to poke at it.
And yet, when it’s plopped onto the salad, it strongly resembles an actual poached egg: soft, yet solid whites, with a liquid yolk.
This was so seriously yummy that its “salad” status may have to be revoked, and that’s without a fatty dressing or any cheese whatever.
My level of drooling calls for something a bit more salacious from Saving Jane, including heavier guitar.