We are back in the Lake District for a farewell visit, although husband has forbade me from using words like goodbye, last, farewell, and final in the run up to our November departure for Boston. Call it what you will, but the the truth is I am busy soaking up my favorite experiences in England while it is still convenient, i.e., the Atlantic Ocean does not lie between them and me.
We are staying in the same hotel where we have stayed most years since before we even lived in England, the Eltermere Inn. I wrote last year of its gentrification, which has continued unabated in the thirteen months since we were last here. There is more glass-encased taxidermy and our favorite room has been collapsed into the room behind it to form a suite with, what else, a claw foot bathtub in the center of the rear room. Shame there isn’t a hot water tank at the hotel large enough to supply two consecutive baths in it (guess who got the first bath?). Never mind, I still had my Lakes breakfast featuring fried bread and marmalade to look forward to. But no, as I found this morning the fried bread is gone from the menu, leaving me to nibble on a delicate eggs Florentine.
And so against all better judgement I offer up the ode to fried bread that this hotel’s breakfast first inspired me to put on this blog some years ago:
Fried Bread & Silver Shred
As a Yank I cannot abide
Beans in morning, even on the side
But when staying in the Lakes
Fried bread for breakfast I embrace
Transforms mere grain to food divine
Layering of fat and tart
‘Tis a culinary art
Echoed in things much esteemed:
Fruit compote and foie gras terinne
Golden toast and tangy ‘lade
Coin in which I’m gladly paid
For my labour up fell and crag
Richly fed I shall not lag
