Here’s the thing. I don’t cook for myself. When you’re single and live alone, a girl will find any excuse to nix cooking off the to-do list. My excuse is I’m lazy, I love yogurt and granola and cereal and fruit with a passion (Yes, this is how I eat. It’s embarrassing), and I’d rather be doing other things besides cleaning the fucking kitchen (I will say here that I LOVE cleaning things–I find it therapeutic–but dishes annoy me to no end. And how does the kitchen get so messy even when you don’t go in there?! I’ll never understand)
Men bring something out in a woman. We southern women turn into this Nurture Goddess at the first sign of any masculine attention. It’s a phenomenon, really. Or it’s just pheromones/hormones/general lack of sexual activity playing mind/body control. That’s probably it. Anyhow, this past weekend I was lucky enough to have a visitor spend a few days with me during my birthday. The type of visitor that you want to feed well and impress with your Betty Crocker skillz and Good Housekeeping technique. A male visitor–insert “hubba hubba’s” and cheesy hearts and eggplant emojis* So I met this guy online. What better way to spend the first weekend of my 30’s than with a man I’ve never met in my mediocre apartment with two cats, multiple Spotify playlists, and….. other things?!?!?!?!? I don’t know if there is a better way, honestly. YOLO. Listen, ANY man who is willing to travel thousands of miles to spend time with you is deserving of a nice fucking breakfast. “Don’t screw this meal up, Bailey. You know how your eggs usually turn out. You’ve GOT this.” So anyway, preceding his arrival I made an elaborate (for me) breakfast menu for myself and this special guest.