Thursday morning No. 5.

I haven't eaten so much butter in one sitting since my trip to Portland, Maine. It was at Becky's Diner, where I enjoyed an honest meal of two eggs scrambled, hash browns and an English muffin, washed down with plenty of diner coffee, the meth of the java world: cheap, easy and always leaving you wanting more. Today's breakfast was a stark contrast, save one ingredient. And even though the mushroom guy told me I could cook my wild hen of the woods mushrooms in extra-virgin olive oil, I knew butter would be better. Yesterday, I sautéed them with parsley and salt. Today I added a clove of garlic, and a little more salt. In a separate pan, I browned some more butter before adding two beaten eggs. They cooked into a perfect blanket for my mushroom filling. Two pieces of sourdough toast (spread with a little more butter), a spoonful of my aunt's triple berry jam, a cup of French press coffee and The Clientele. I've heard it's cold outside, but I wouldn't know. I'm swaying on a mushroom cloud over eucalyptus branches.