Early morning worries
Here´s where my marriage totters. This may sound overdramatic, but it really makes me wonder who I married.
José is a great guy, don´t get me wrong.
I love him, an´all. He´s too fabulous for words, and useful when heavy shopping has to be brough home, stubborn jars opened, and high closet doors opened. He chats to my mother on the phone, he´s polite to my aunts, my dogs love him, he does the washing up. Perfect, you´d say.
He doesn´t have breakfast.
He just won´t have breakfast. Isn´t that weird? Am I not right to worry? What kind of person leaves the house on an empty stomach? Many, I know, but then they have breakfast, later. They do here in Spain, anyway. It´s a popular sport on weekday mornings, and makes employers ever so happy, when their employees spend a gainful three quarters of an hour stuffing themselfs with churros and cafe con leche.
But not José. No.
On weekends, when he has all the time in the world, and the smell of toast wafts through the whole house? Nothing. He might chat to me a little, as I go through the steps for a proper pa am tomaquet. And not take one single crumb from my plate.
This is clear psycho behaviour. Am I nursing a viper in my bossom?Can I make him change his ways?
Oh well. Here´s a kitchen sketch of an egg breakfast. Very rare occurence, and duly recorded for posterity, on a lazy Sunday morning.