Omelet

Eastside Road, May 1, 2010—

WELL, THEN, which is it, omelet or omelette? The latter seems dated now, and a little bit (that awful word) pretentious, but that's how I tend to think of it, because that's pretty much how it was spelled when I was learning to spell.

When Lindsey suggested I make omelets tonight I immediately thought of the little artichoke I noticed yesterday on one of the artichokes I planted a couple of months ago — a sweet little thing, just big enough to flavor something. I bought a couple of Roma tomatoes in town, and sweated a chopped shallot, then the sliced artichoke and finally the chopped tomatoes — olive oil to start them, then some good dry Vermouth and a little water to keep them moist.

The omelet was made ma façon: a good quantity of olive oil heated quite hot in the steel omelet pan (used for nothing else, and never washed with soap); four eggs and a hand-rinsing of cold water whisked up; the pan held down in the flames (grate taken off the burner for this operation). Here you see it in the tossing. I turned it out onto our plates and stuffed it with the tomato-artichoke mixture. Delicious.

Green salad, of course.

Nero d'Avola