Saturday morning. Rain on the window. The kitchen still cold from overnight but the kettle is on and the bread bin has half a loaf from Thursday that's gone a bit firm. This is eggy bread weather.

There's nothing to it, really. You beat some eggs, soak some bread, fry it in butter. The whole thing takes less time than it takes to decide what to have for breakfast. But the smell of it, butter and egg hitting a hot pan, fills the kitchen in a way that makes the morning feel intentional. Someone is paying attention. Someone is making breakfast properly.

The French call it pain perdu, lost bread, which is a lovelier name for what is essentially the same thing with ideas above its station. We call it eggy bread, which is more honest and tells you everything you need to know. Bread. Eggs. Pan. Butter. We're only making breakfast.

I've made this hundreds of times and written it down once: "Stale bread, three eggs, too much butter. Perfect." The notebook doesn't lie.