The Sombre Frittata

It's ridiculous that I'd never made a frittata before today. I like quiches but can't make crust. I like omelets, but I always make such a mess out of them that they end up looking like an autopsy. A frittata is the obvious solution. But most varieties call for them to start on the stovetop and end up under the broiler, and A. that seems like a lot of work, and B. I am afraid of the broiler on the gas stove; it looks and sounds way too much like Apollo 13.

I googled around and found something that basically said whisk eggs with stuff you like and stick it in the oven, so that's the one I went with (gorgonzola, pine nuts, basil, etc). They mentioned adding a dash of baking powder -- which I assume is the miracle that accounted for its magic puffiness.

Unfortunately, it had already begun to deflate by the time I got the camera out ("if I had a nickel..."), but you can get the general idea.

It's not everyone who'll eat your culinary experiments, but Chef Tom and Michael and the BFF soldiered through.

I was so proud of it, I posted this picture, prompting an emergency text from my gay husband "did I miss a brunch?!" thinking he'd inadvertently skipped official hosting duties and was probably in big trouble.

That reminded me of this David Thorne oldie-but-goodie (click for the entire exchange)

"Last week when I checked my mailbox, I found that my new neighbour had left me a note stating that he was having a party and to let him know if the noise was too loud. The problem I have with the note is not that he was having a party and didn’t invite me, it was that he selected a vibrant background of balloons, effectively stating that his party was going to be vibrant and possibly have balloons and that I couldn’t come.
If I was writing a note to my neighbours saying that I was going to have a party but none of them could come, I would not add photos of ecstasy tablets, beer and gratuitous shots of Lucius going down on men to show them what they are missing out on, I would make it clean and simple, possibly even sombre, so they didn’t think ‘you prick’."

So, let me clarify, there were no balloons or anything. No ecstasy tablets either. Just a sombre frittata. (I think the British spelling gives it a little more gravitas.)