A hymn to breakfast.

I can easily skip lunch, lunch is the most overrated meal in the history of mankind, it’s only purpose is to give the working class a break, just a short one, though, I blame the trade unions, breakfast, however, I love, it was invented by people with lots of time on their hands, the time it takes to season your egg with seven different spices, salt not included, or to sip your tea in a gentlemanly manner, the second brew of the day, you’ve had your first one in bed, your early morning tea, to read your paper, turning those pages in slow motion, one cannot read a paper swiftly, only when looking if your last wrong doing made it to the front pages, that’s how it’s shown in films anyway, it takes even more time to choose what marmalade it is to make it on your toast or croissant, orange, quince or grapefruit, on these croissants you had to pick up at your baker first, you did enjoy that little stroll down the street, always running into a neighbour, exchanging thoughts on the forecast weather and last Sunday’s sermon at church, lemon curd it is, you’ve just realized you only had orange marmalade yesterday and were somewhat disappointed with the texture, your dog awaits a walk, he’s so transparent, be cruel, have another cup of tea, nobody not even your dog should ever rush you, sounds familiar, all of that? Of course not, we devour our croissants while on commute, wash’em down with some office coffee and can’t wait for lunch, the only time in the day where we can let go, for a minute or two, while nodding along our colleague’s reflections on the shortcomings of conference room B, waiting for another of his desperate little sighs, soundtracking his checking the time again, poor fellow, but damn, how long can it take to serve some pasta, we all endure it so very bravely – all by looking forward to our Sunday breakfast, the one day we are allowed to have one.

Too good to be forgotten.

We ate all day. From 11 am on, we had everything one could ask for, I spent most of the time between 11:15 and 12:29 passing sliced duck breast on a bed of rocket with a very mustardy vinaigrette, tasting slighty Japanese, then there was none left, and people started asking why, why is that so good and why did you make so little, by that insulting and praising at the same time the life and death of the two ducks whose breasts had been sacrificed for our Easter brunch, but I at least was left alone then, at my end of the table were only the jugs with water, lemoned and pepperminted, and some of the minor salads, they weren’t paid much attention to, politics and a collectively hated friend, let’s call her Madame X, provided enough distraction anyway, at least until, very late in the afternoon, a lentil curry was served, prepared with none other than lentilles vertes du Puy, cumin, coconut milk, mustard seeds, red onions, chillies and coriander leaves, all of it interacted heavenly, creating something so good, everybody lost track of the conversation, time stood still, and those ducks, well, the poor bastards and their breasts, however good, had obviously died in vain, as they had already fallen into complete oblivion.

Think pink. Think Camilla.

IMG_4356

Think pink. That’s what we learned from Funny Face’s Quality magazine’s editor-in-chief Maggie Prescott – Hollywood’s version of Diana Vreeland. Think pink. That’s what I learned from my mother. My life is quite unthinkable without her Pink Camilla china service, designed by Spode in the late 1700s. I grew up with it, took parts of it to my very first apartment, bought additional pieces myself, smashed dozens of cups and plates, some teapots, too, replaced it all, well, not all, only the pieces I smashed after making my own living, after turning 27, so to speak, I still have tea from a broken bouillon cup, its handle broke years and years ago, my doing of course, never anybody else’s, why that is I don’t know, I’m not that clumsy, believe you me, anyway, I had my cornflakes in it right before school and vichyssoise, game and charlotte russe on Christmas eve, lamb was served on it at Easter and strawberry extravaganzas on my birthday, it witnessed tears and laughter, the entertaining of dear friends and social obligation dinners, small talk and passed on top secret information, all over breakfast, lunch and dinner, over coffee, tea, wine and champagne, in summer and winter, in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the garden, in a nutshell, this china is part of my life, and however much I love my own Royal Copenhagen, Pink Camilla will always represent my home, my parents, my background. God bless her.

So, here’s a potpourri of pictures I took over my years on Instagram.

IMG_4280IMG_4316IMG_4328IMG_0906IMG_4353IMG_4384IMG_4320IMG_4323IMG_9096IMG_8703IMG_4395IMG_5746