Breakfast wars.

Oh how I do enjoy that Téodor. We clashed over stovetop real estate this morning, and as it turns out we were both in a mood to whip up a few egg dishes. We agreed in sport to allocate two of the four burners to each man and afford a good half-hour to see who might concoct the finest plates. We would serve our creations to each other and judge on the honor system. Thrilling!

For my half I went to the earth and made a hash of black-eyed peas, mushroom, garlic, and minced ham. Over this I served a poached egg with a particularly reliable tinned Hollandaise and chopped parsley.

Téodor, however, is not to be outdone when kitchen reputation is on the line. One is well advised not to challenge him when victuals are the medium. He goes into a particular fugue state and reminds me rather eerily of Pollock.

His dish was based on a hybrid of Toad In The Hole and risotto. He cooked a pancetta risotto near to completion, and when it was just al dente he made four wells in the pan and cracked a fresh egg into each. He then sprinkled the surface with fontina and bread crumbs and stuck the whole into the oven to bake. When the eggs were set he set the pan on the counter and I, awestruck, ceded absolute victory.

We ate well the both of us, and he being the virtuoso made a suggestion or two which dramatically improved my capricious hash recipe. Apparently the whole affair would have sat better on a spicy pureed tomato concasse, which would have offset the starchiness of the beans and interplayed well with the salty pork.

It is a joy to see a fellow at the top of his game. He really ought to have a cooking show -- or at least a book of his own. Perhaps I will do him the favor of a bit of legwork and see how such a thing might come to pass.

I do adore that Lauren Graham.

The cable television contract at our house was recently upgraded to include a channel which shows Gilmore Girls every day from nine in the morning until noon. I need not tell you that this has essentially zeroed out my productivity after the cherished morning ritual. I have a newfound appreciation for the character Richard, the father, played by Edward Herrmann. His polished, gentlemanly demeanor and impeccable deportment make one wonder why society at large ever abandoned the habiliment of dignity in favor of sweat pants and connected eyebrows.

But back to my real darling, that Lorelai. Now, you do not out-think me in supposing that my appreciation of willowy brunette beauties (e.g., the ill-fated Ekaterina Gamova affair) is habitual. A trend might be perceived, here. Spurious, due to a low number of data points, but a trend nonetheless. Let me lay that to rest. My first wife, dear Iris Gambol Bear, was as red-headed as the Celtic genotype allows, and rather more strong than long, if you will. After I mourned her, others naturally followed in time, among them a spicy little political doyenne of Thai extraction, and a curvaceous Argentinian who ensnared me in a twisted web of tango and torrid jealousy. As you can see, I am in some small way like the great masters: I simply go through periods. Just as Picasso had his blue, so now do I have my pale, willowy brunettes.

It hits me in the noodle now that I had no reason to defend myself to you. Surely you were humming along, thinking "isn't it fantastic that Cornelius can find happiness, now what web site shall I check next, I do enjoy that one with the butterfly." I suppose this blogging is often merely a therapeutic measure, as though one were laying one's self on Freud's couch while the great man was out of the room, in his stead standing a curious, humming device much like an evil oboe, which took in one's spoken words and distributed them across an incredible, instantaneous, world-wide network of tin ear-horns.