The most beautiful things are so often the simplest.
Gorgeous, am-I-really-in-my-house-and-not-at-some-gorgeously-opulent-hotel brunch:
The ingredients were beautiful:
Blue and green (!) pristine and fresh farmer’s market eggs, purslane (!) which I had never tried before (tastewise it’s a more intense spinach; but nutritionally holy crap it has more omega 3’s than fish oil); leftover crab from an appetizer that my mom made for Thanksgiving; and a mere sliver of the gargantuan scone we got at the farmer’s market.
Bitter green goodness of purslane on the top. Oh so sweet and rich crab. Wonderfully rich, flowing yolked egg (seriously, I know at a certain point I will stop posting other things and just make poached egg dishes. Apologies).
Plus butterlicious scone. Tell me you wouldn’t squeal for joy if someone at some seaside, sun-drenched bed and breakfast with white linen tablecloths deposited this brunch in front of you.
Dear Martha Stewart: Sometimes I read your cookbooks in bed for fun. I am scared of your perfect table arrangements. Also, your poached salmon salad with parsley and capers is exquisite.
And Martha probably would not approve but I halfed it and didn’t have celery…. or carrot… so my poaching liquid was water with half a lemon and half an onion.
I made a flavor paaaaaaaacked dressing with red wine vin, olive oil, capers (<3) and parsley.
That is a tiny amount of fairly simple ingredients and yet this was seriously one of the best salmon dishes I’ve had. Martha, you’re where it’s at. And though I lacked any fancy centerpieces or anything, this was a nice centerpiece.
My accompanying dish was inspired by my Thanksgiving gratin creation.
Like any good recipe, it began with butter (and olive oil. And fresh rosemary).
Then I chopped up the last of some lackluster potatoes and apples…
And plunked those in the oil.
Let ‘em brown up in fatty goodness. Tossed in a splash of milk, covered it, let ‘em steam til the taters cooked through.
Finally, to reconnect with my (1/4) British roots, I broiled some tomatoes (only, obviously, you’d say tom-ah-toes).