OKAY. Here goes. Exciting personal developments. Following a recent road trip, I am now the proud owner of A Murray Valley Citrus Peeler. As a result, I have been declared, by myself, as officially fit and ready for the year ahead. Bring. It. On. Particularly bring on oranges and other citrus fruits. Below is a still from a new video of the new me peeling my new orange with my new citrus peeler. Hardly recognisable. Partly because I have my hand covering the majority of my face. But only partly. Another example of the new me is marmalade. The new me likes it. I got some kumquat marmalade at Orange World. The old me didn’t like kumquats either. Are you keeping up? Perhaps a little break and a little snack to keep you going? Okay. A sandwich. Let’s ease our way into marmalade with a short story about sandwiches, followed by a recipe for sandwiches, followed by eating sandwiches.
Before our trip to Orange World, we caught a paddle steamer tour down the Murray River. It was nice, if a little boring, but the good kind of nice, and the good kind of boring. It acted as a sort of palate cleanser for the fun ahead. We cleansed our actual palates with actual sandwiches. We brought our own, and carried them aboard in the bag that the bread had come in. This is absolutely my favourite mode of transportation for sandwiches, ensuring that both nostalgia and sentimentality are kept at peak levels of freshness. We cut our sandwiches into grown-up triangles. As in, each triangle was half a sandwich, not a quarter of a sandwich. They were selling the quartered kind on board, all freshly handmade and lovingly draped with cling-film. While I made my way around my own motelmade share, I watched a family of three get to work on their boatmade ones.
I kept locking eyes with the teenage boy. This was likely due to the fact that I was staring at him. A lazy character evaluation, based on first impressions, would conclude that he displayed all of the classic signs of being both incredibly awkward and incredibly shy. This…maybe…also…was likely due to the fact that I was staring at him. Anyway, he eventually used this opportunity to avert his gaze and to fully and completely commit himself to a silent conversation with his sandwich. He enquired constantly with it as to its fillings, and by the third triangle he was eliminating all vegetables. In less than half the time it takes to complete a nice and boring boat tour, this apparently shy, awkward teenager had transformed himself into a bona fide boss. Boss Of The Sandwich. Before long, all tomatoes present had been dismissed from their duties, while the unsuspecting cucumbers had been ruthlessly knocked to the table, left, right, and finally, centre.
The son’s behaviour was rewarded with the close attention of his father, sister, me, and now, you. His father was gently but persistently concerned with his son’s findings. He was the boss’ boss, after all, and it was his job to carry out a full appraisal of the boy’s activities in his new role. What exactly was his impression of the sandwich? Good? Really? It’s O.K.? Oh, good. That’s good. Was he sure? Surely sure? Double sure? Oh sure. That’s O.K. That’s good. O.K.
The father, henceforth to be referred to as the giant, held his own helping with a hand roughly the same dimensions, length and width, of an A4 page. And it was, oh, say, 50 sheets thick. The giant folded his stack-of-paper hands around his standard-sandwich-sized-quarter-sandwich-triangles, and slowly passed them one by one from his giant hand to his little mouth. Seeing this, the little hook on his giant nose descended and, turning inwards slightly, gave a reassuring nudge as if to say ‘in you go, ‘attasandwich’. His nose really was giant. At least A4. It was great and handsome and wonderful. His son and daughter both had the very same one, decreasing in size in descending order of age, with the son’s being the smallest and the most in proportion with his own hand and mouth and sandwich.
The daughter watched the pair of bosses closely, and back-and-forthly. She seemed most amused by her little brother with his littler nose and his funny little ways with his little sandwich. She smiled at bits, really warm and really contagious. I, on the other hand, tried not to, because I was just the creep on the boat watching her watching the giant watching the boy watching the sandwich.
I can now only just count on three hands and three fingers the amount of times I have used the word sandwich above. So this seems like a good time to get on with the recipe. I really liked the family and their sandwiches and my family and our sandwiches. The whole thing was a recipe for nostalgia and hugs stew. There, two recipes in one post. So, now, onto number two.
A Sandwich of Salt & Pepper French Toast & Kumquat Marmalade
Click below for the recipe…
Serves 1 – 2
1 tbsp milk
1/2 teaspoon salt (I used Murray River Salt Flakes)
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tbsp spring onions
1 tbsp parsley
1 tbsp mint
2 slices of bread
Marmalade (I used kumquat, as mentioned)
Oil, butter, or whatever you fancy, for the pan
1. Use a fork to mix together the eggs, milk, salt, pepper and half of the spring onions, parsley and mint. Pour onto a plate or baking dish, anything that will comfortably accommodate your slices of bread.
2. Spread marmalade on both slices of bread and sandwich them together.
3. Place the bread into the egg mixture and allow to rest for a minute or two on both sides. Press it down using a spatula, drag some of the mixture up the edges, you want it fully covered.
4. Meanwhile, bring your pan to a medium-high heat, and add your oil.
5. Lift up your bread, draining off the excess liquid, and place in the pan. Allow about 3 minutes on each side, so it’s nice and crispy but not burnt.
6. Serve warm, cut into triangles, garnished with the leftover spring onions and herbs.
French toast recipe adapted from this one at Food52