My husband, Sean Santoro, and I make a big deal out of Sunday brunch together. Only we never eat the same thing. I recycle vegetables, soup, or salad from the night before as a base for poached eggs. (Mark’s recipe is unfussy and un-vinegary.) And Sean always makes himself bacon and something—an omelet or other eggy thing cooked in the pan drippings—and fruit, which I save for an afternoon snack, what with all the roughage going on already.
Last Sunday I simmered leftover sautéed broccolini in a last spoonful of tomato sauce and served it over thick slices of bread while Sean had French toast, homemade applesauce, and cut-up kiwi.
You’d think short-order cooking for two would be a pain. But Sean and I have a simple routine that minimizes cleanup. Working in stages, he only uses one pan and starts the bacon while I prep any produce and mix myself a Bloody Mary. When he turns to soaking the toast, I set a small pot of water to boil and nuke my vegetables right on the serving plate. He flips; I poach. After working in the kitchen together—with the jazz cranked up, naturally—we sit down at the same time. As if we’d ordered brunch in a restaurant.