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An omelette to heal your soul
The mood in our house has been somewhat sobre lately. Not for any concrete, pre-packaged reason, but for that unattainably tear-your-heart-out existential melancholy. And so this morning I took to try...
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Ketchup, the biggest delicacy of all
I had a less-than-usual breakfast the other morning. Faced with not one, not two, but three varieties of ketchup, I gave in to the absurdity of the situation and cooked bacon that would stand to all...
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Autumnal breakfasts: Jewish cheese spread.
There is something about me, autumn and breakfasts. It is perhaps because autumn is the ultimate (my favourite word of late) liminal time of the year. The time when things seem to stand still and you...
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The most fertile of breakfasts.
Despite my well-publicized love for crossing sexual with food imagery, this is the first time I will admit to the outright enjoyment of fish sperm for breakfast. Herring sperm, to be precise. Herring...
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Trendy dudes, fried eggs and unexpected winters.
Fried eggs with salo, thin slivers of cured pork fat (of which I have written liberally before here and here), used to be one my dad’s favourite breakfasts. Snacks and dinners too. Eggs, greens and...
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The beauty of breakfasts: eggs baked in sourcream.
The sweet waking up to the gentle, clanking sounds in the kitchen and shuffle my pajamad feet following my mum’s call for breakfast is one of those memories that make me squeeze my eyes and sign...
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Breakfasts: on his hands, manta ray and frankfurters.
On Sundays me and him would take a hike to the haunting ruins of St Birgitta monastery. On the outskirts of Tallinn, these 500 years old walls were standing there, unguarded, uncared, welcoming. I...
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Curd cheese patties with sea buckthorn sauce.
I am back. And could there be a more scrumptious and cosy way of returning than with the dish that used to be fed to millions of Soviet children in kindergartens and schools across 1/6 of the planet –...
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Sprats can take it, take it all.
You wake up, what at first seems like a middle of the night, in that grainy, 1930s photograph light. It feels like little, prosecco like bubbles frothing up underneath your skin. It’s not an unpleasant...
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Milky sausages from LavkaLavka – not from toilet paper.
One of my fondest memories of having breakfast with my mother was when she would lightly boil a couple of molochnye sosiski (literally milky sausages, frankfurter type) for me. I would eat them...
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