Chapter Fourteen
Sunday morning passed in a blur of f*****g and fried food. It was completely and utterly unhealthy sustenance, but at some point in the night Marie and I had had a sleepy conversation about things we missed about home—and an English breakfast was one of them. I’d resolved to make one when we got up—which was closer to lunchtime than breakfast time.
I didn’t have all of the essential ingredients in my fridge, unfortunately—it seemed black pudding was elusive in L.A.—but I did a damn good job of the bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, sausages and baked beans. Marie was in charge of making us each a mug of English breakfast tea while I was working my culinary magic—or at least it smelled like magic.
When we finally sat at the table, me in shorts and a T-shirt,
