There’s something inherently romantic about eggs: whether you’re preparing them for another person, or being served them, they always strike me as a little act of love. Maybe it’s that they suggest breakfast in bed. Breakfast in bed is not about flirting or seduction, it’s more than that. You don’t make breakfast in bed for someone in whom you’re uninterested. Breakfast in bed is not a collaboration, it’s a gift from one person to the other, reserved for those you wish to impress, or to whom you wish to signal your love.
That said, while in theory I like the idea, in practice I can feel a little allergic to breakfast in bed: the prospect of crumbs dropped and discovered the following evening is about the least romantic thing I can imagine. A blob of jam on the sheets, sticky and staining is not my idea of fun. But eggs en cocotte don’t present such a problem, as they’re self-contained.
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