Cooking and eating during the summer and early fall is pure bliss. Almost every food imaginable is available. Sometimes we take it for granted, especially when it starts to get dark and cold and those harvest goodies are no longer seasonal. So one solution is to preserve the harvest, through canning, freezing and drying. I’ve canned a ton of things this year, and froze some goodies too.
I actually can’t remember if I’ve ever bought Wonder Bread. And I probably purchased my last loaf of store packaged bread several years ago. Our bread is fresh baked, from Whole Foods, local bakeries, Bread Alone or one of the other many bakers that sells at the NYC Greenmarkets. It’s great because we get a better selection than white, wheat, rye. We get whole wheat sourdough, rye with caraway seeds, peasant breads and crusty soft baguettes. On the flip side, we don’t keep bread in our home 24/7 like a lot of families just because we can’t eat it fast enough before it spoils. Sliced bread is still good 3-4 days later, but baguettes start hardening the next day. So I turn that day old bread into tasty treats, like homemade breadcrumbs, croutons, and my favorite–French Toast.
Really you can even serve this for dinner too if you’d like. It all depends on how hungry you are. I’ve probably been making my version of Croque Madame before I even knew what it was called. Who doesn’t love cheese, bread and a little runny egg to blend it all together? Then, more recently I started localizing and the flavors were amazing.
There is just really nothing like a farm fresh pastured egg. Yes, you’re paying a bit (a lot) more than you would your standard white eggs, but I’m telling you once you try one, you’ll never go back. The yolks are so rich, a rich yellow-orange, almost neon color. Now I know my mother always taught me not to play with your food, but when you get a really fresh egg (I mean RIGHT from the farm), you can’t help it. You can easily separate the yolk from the white by hand, and you can literally toss the yolk up and down a bit without it breaking. The eggs I bought while we were in Maine required me to poke the yoke with my finger, rather forcefully I should say, before it broke.