Over pints in Henley-on-Thames

‘taking a bit of a quiet Sunday, lying in reading, then a shared coffee toast and poached egg breakfast.  The New York Times has been making the case for breakfast all week, with emails and recipes. There are lots of good ideas for new things to try, variations on eggs and spreads for muffins look particularly appealing. But the main m4essage is that breakfast is ‘home’: familiar food in a comfort setting, part of a cozy family routine.

I was always one for making eggs, fried, then scrambled (loose for the British and firm for the Americans), finally poached over toast.  I went through a period of boy scout pancakes, then artistic shapes for the kids, finally fluffy Western-style flapjacks early in Europe.  Sausage and potatoes likewise have given way to grilled peppers and onions, cereal and fruit to yogurt-muesli-coulis mixtures.

I’m experimenting improving my coffee and preserves.  Jams are best from the farm shops, but better coffee required an online search and some ordering.  ‘Combined with an Aero press, I can get a pretty decent cup when I make a project out of it.  But my Sicilian housemates sniff that my morning brew will never rise above ‘coffee-scented tea’ unless I concentrate it into syrupy espresso using a Bialetti Moka stovetop device.

‘Over to the Anchor pub in Henley-on-Thames, then, for a riverside walk together, sharing news articles over G&T and local bitters. 

   

We drift into talking about the Oscars and the films we haven’t seen this year (or last).  I send a link about the Fashion on to my family.  There’s a laugh over the Guardian’s commentary, and I get a bit rapturous over Jenny Beavan, who won an Oscar for costume design.  She was wholly herself when it came to dressing up (although she says it was Mad Max inspired).  There were some lovely pictures of looks that she got from the audience as she accepted her award, and conspiracy theories as to why.

I try to get a few good pictures of a lovely antique roadster outside, playing off  of the plant and the cracked window.  Depth of focus fails me: I resolve to go back to the photography course.

It’s all comfortably domestic, fitting with the weekend theme. Yet, what is ‘home’ for a nomad like me?  Less a place, than:
  - Where I unpack everything into it’s place
  - Where my things have a safe place to rest
   - Where I cook for myself
   - Where my 13 boxes of things are kept
   - Where my souvenirs are arrayed along the bookshelves

No, it’s most assuredly where I know that am most loved and welcomed, and where I give the same in return.