I thought since my husband has been working 12 hour days pulling down walls and putting up walls that he deserves a dinner from the old country. Or breakfast from the old country, for dinner. Eggs, thick cut smoked bacon made over in Greenpoint, Brooklyn that people line up around the block for, baked beans, stewed tomatoes (except I am going to roast them) and no blood pudding and no sausage, which is an old country favorite–why have one meat on the plate when you can have three–but collards. No one in the whole of the UK would ever eat collards with their breakfast, but what’s the new world good for, if not for a little shake-and-wake-up.
I’ll make him a peach shortcake with the seasons last peaches, caramelized in just a little sugar and butter and covered with heavy cream, lightly whipped and folded into a bit of creme fraiche and I think with that, the greens will slide right by any and all kinds of celtic criticism. (Of course the truth is that you know I would have never been married to the man this long if he were complaining about the cooking.)