I was on my own for dinner last night, a rather unusual event. I like cooking for myself, although I tend to gravitate towards things like noodles or sandwiches, or interestingly reconstituted leftovers. This time I decided to purposely keep things simple and cook myself an omelet for dinner, something I almost never do when we’re both home.

On the way home from work I talked myself into stopping at the co-op to get a small piece of cheese and a baguette to flesh things out, and when I got home I opened a bottle of white wine, a verdejo from the Spanish wine tasting last week. It was lovely with the faint sourdough taste of the bread.

I broke three eggs into a bowl, salted them and whisked them up. Most of a bag of salad mix (from Dunbar, of course) went into our old wooden salad bowl, and I shook up a dressing of olive oil, home-grown garlic, red wine vinegar and salt & pepper.

I got out my trusty small nonstick pan, tossed in probably too much butter and let it foam, then added the egg and pulled in the edges as it cooked. As the liquid egg on top began to set, I turned off the heat and flipped half the omelet over onto itself, then slid it onto a plate.

It was a lovely solitary dinner – the omelet went perfectly with the sour bread and the bitter salad greens, with a bite of cheese here or there.