Read Online Bon Appetempt: A Coming-of-Age Story (with Recipes!) by Amelia Morris - Free Book Online
Authors: Amelia Morris
Tags: Autobiography / Women, Biography &, Autobiography / Culinary, Cooking / Essays &, Narratives
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minutes.
In the interest of fewer dishes to clean, I like to divvy up the rice between two plates at this stage and fry my eggs in the same pan I just used. If the pan looks dry, add a bit more olive oil (it’s OK if there’s still a bit of rice stuck to it). Crack the eggs into a separate bowl and then slide the eggs into the pan. Reduce the heat to low and cover. The eggs are done when the whites are setbut the yolks are still runny. This can take anywhere between 2 and 4 minutes. (But remember, runny yolks are key here!)
Once they’re done, place the eggs on top of the rice. Season the eggs with a bit of salt and pepper. Add the broccolini to the plates. Make sure to serve with sriracha. (The best bites include a mixture of rice, egg, broccolini, and a touch of sriracha.)
Chapter 9
The Wrong, Long Path
W hile I was away at college, Mom and Bruce downsized to a two-bedroom condo, and so it was from Bruce’s newly set-up third-floor office where I hesitated for a few minutes before finally purchasing the round-trip ticket to San José, Costa Rica, leaving Pittsburgh in mid-June and returning six weeks later. I hesitated not only because I was going alone but because my plans included nothing more than spending some time in the city, volunteering, maybe making a friend or two, and traveling to the coast. It scared me, but what was scarier was
not
going. Because if I took away Costa Rica, all I was was an unemployed liberal arts graduate.
I arrived in the capital with the bare minimum: a backpack full of clothes, my journal, a Costa Rican guidebook, the address of a hostel, and the phone number of Bruce’s Christian friends. But the minute the taxi dropped me off at the hostel, I knew I’d overestimated myself.
The hostel in San José issued me a twin bed, which was part of a bunk bed, which was in a room with five other bunk beds. As far as I could tell, I was the only one traveling alone. Wasting no time, I retrieved the notebook with the phone number of the Costa Rican Christians from my backpack.
But when I called, I got a Spanish recording telling me to hang up and dial again. I figured I was doing something wrong, like not using the proper city code. I tried the number again, slightly differently. Still nothing. I tried again and again, finally asking the person working the front desk for help. Still, I couldn’t get through. In the common area, I logged on to one of the computers and sent an e-mail to the address Bruce gave me, explaining I’d arrived and that the phone number I had for them didn’t seem to be working.
In the meantime, I tried casually hanging out by the pool with a book in hand, pretending to be OK with the fact that I was there alone, as if I hadn’t just spent an entire semester at college drinking too much in order to avoid feeling a moment of such loneliness. I lasted maybe a half hour.
In need of some cash and food, I decided to venture out. A couple of blocks away, I found a bank, withdrew some
colones
, picked up groceries, and got whistled at by various passengers in cars driving by. Back at the hostel, I ate my dinner by myself and checked my e-mail. There was nothing waiting for me.
From the semi-comfort of my twin bunk bed that night, I put together a plan B. According to my guidebook, I could take a bus to any one of the beach towns. I decided that’s what I would do if I didn’t hear anything from the Christians in the morning. After all, if I was going to be alone, I might as well be alone at the beach, right?
But in the morning, before I even checked my e-mail to see if anyone had responded, I realized that I didn’t have my bank card. Instantly, I knew I’d left it in the ATM machine. And instantly, I knew the jig was up. Within the half hour, I packed up my things, checked out of the hostel, and hailed a cab tothe airport where I paid a 125-dollar fee to change my return ticket to the very next flight out of San José.
Of course, I could have gone back to the
In the interest of fewer dishes to clean, I like to divvy up the rice between two plates at this stage and fry my eggs in the same pan I just used. If the pan looks dry, add a bit more olive oil (it’s OK if there’s still a bit of rice stuck to it). Crack the eggs into a separate bowl and then slide the eggs into the pan. Reduce the heat to low and cover. The eggs are done when the whites are setbut the yolks are still runny. This can take anywhere between 2 and 4 minutes. (But remember, runny yolks are key here!)
Once they’re done, place the eggs on top of the rice. Season the eggs with a bit of salt and pepper. Add the broccolini to the plates. Make sure to serve with sriracha. (The best bites include a mixture of rice, egg, broccolini, and a touch of sriracha.)
Chapter 9
The Wrong, Long Path
W hile I was away at college, Mom and Bruce downsized to a two-bedroom condo, and so it was from Bruce’s newly set-up third-floor office where I hesitated for a few minutes before finally purchasing the round-trip ticket to San José, Costa Rica, leaving Pittsburgh in mid-June and returning six weeks later. I hesitated not only because I was going alone but because my plans included nothing more than spending some time in the city, volunteering, maybe making a friend or two, and traveling to the coast. It scared me, but what was scarier was
not
going. Because if I took away Costa Rica, all I was was an unemployed liberal arts graduate.
I arrived in the capital with the bare minimum: a backpack full of clothes, my journal, a Costa Rican guidebook, the address of a hostel, and the phone number of Bruce’s Christian friends. But the minute the taxi dropped me off at the hostel, I knew I’d overestimated myself.
The hostel in San José issued me a twin bed, which was part of a bunk bed, which was in a room with five other bunk beds. As far as I could tell, I was the only one traveling alone. Wasting no time, I retrieved the notebook with the phone number of the Costa Rican Christians from my backpack.
But when I called, I got a Spanish recording telling me to hang up and dial again. I figured I was doing something wrong, like not using the proper city code. I tried the number again, slightly differently. Still nothing. I tried again and again, finally asking the person working the front desk for help. Still, I couldn’t get through. In the common area, I logged on to one of the computers and sent an e-mail to the address Bruce gave me, explaining I’d arrived and that the phone number I had for them didn’t seem to be working.
In the meantime, I tried casually hanging out by the pool with a book in hand, pretending to be OK with the fact that I was there alone, as if I hadn’t just spent an entire semester at college drinking too much in order to avoid feeling a moment of such loneliness. I lasted maybe a half hour.
In need of some cash and food, I decided to venture out. A couple of blocks away, I found a bank, withdrew some
colones
, picked up groceries, and got whistled at by various passengers in cars driving by. Back at the hostel, I ate my dinner by myself and checked my e-mail. There was nothing waiting for me.
From the semi-comfort of my twin bunk bed that night, I put together a plan B. According to my guidebook, I could take a bus to any one of the beach towns. I decided that’s what I would do if I didn’t hear anything from the Christians in the morning. After all, if I was going to be alone, I might as well be alone at the beach, right?
But in the morning, before I even checked my e-mail to see if anyone had responded, I realized that I didn’t have my bank card. Instantly, I knew I’d left it in the ATM machine. And instantly, I knew the jig was up. Within the half hour, I packed up my things, checked out of the hostel, and hailed a cab tothe airport where I paid a 125-dollar fee to change my return ticket to the very next flight out of San José.
Of course, I could have gone back to the
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