One of my co-workers has some chickens. He gets me eggs, sometimes.

This morning I arose at three in the ayem to a pair of screaming charlie horses in my calves. While I was walking them off I spied the egg carton; real eggs ought not (according to me) be refrigerated. So the electrons in my head move around until they convinced me that an omelette was a good idea.

Unlike Alton Brown I like stuff in an omelette. With the holiday over, there are a bunch of leftovers in the fridge, a bit of this and a bit of that, and I decided that’s the omelette I’m gonna have.

So i chopped up a piece of Andoille about the size of an acorn. A little corned beef and some ham. An onion and a couple shrimp. Diced fine and added to the top of the still slightly runny eggs Some shredded mozza, a little extra sharp cheddar, some smoky brie, and the slightly crusty end of a piece of Shitake.

No, there aren’t pictures! It’s an omelette! Who the hell do you think I am, Oleg Volk? Brigid? I ate it.

I’d put down a slice of toast with marmite on top of it but that would be gilding the lily.

And today, people will see me, and fear me, and run screaming at the sound of my farts.