Farmer's omelet

Corte della Pazienza, June 9, 2011—

WHEN NOT TRAVELING, as some of you know, we often fast once a week. That's hard to do these days, partly because you don't want to miss out on any chances to eat in this town, partly because we're responsible for an eighteen-year-old young woman, and don't want to push too many of our imperatives off on her.

But we have another way of punishing ourselves, a particularly nice one: we'll just eat at home today. So after a breakfast of the usual caffelatte and almond torte (which is pretty much pure marzipan, left over from Lindsey's birthday-boxing-day), we contented ourselves with a ham-cheese tosti for lunch, in a museum café.

Dinner was an omelet: L. cut up six potatoes, two onions, a good-sized chunk of guanciale, and cooked them all together until everything was done and the house smelled like heaven. Then she beat up a half dozen eggs and added them to the pan, just letting them set.

A green salad was all else needed.

Prosecco spento; Pinot nero, €1 per liter at the fill-up-your-jug shop