Jetlag, Y'all. Jetlag.....

I got back to Spain on Monday, and was informed by a friend today that I can only use jetlag as an excuse for for five days, which means I’m at the limit.  But let me tell you a little story of an #epicfail for which I totally blame jetlag.

I haven’t been sleeping at night. I know part of it is the time change from the States, but also the heat and the noise of Spanish summer party culture in the streets plays a part, too.  Yesterday after two consecutive nights of lying awake until the wee hours, I was exhausted by late afternoon.  I decided I was going to bed early, no matter what.  I just needed to make a quiche for my Friday morning breakfast group, which I’ve been doing for a few months—a quiche Lorraine nearly every Friday morning, because it’s a fan favorite among the breakfast group.  I almost feel like I HAVE to make it just to keep the crowd happy. 

So I whipped up the recipe from memory, having made sure I had all the ingredients ahead of time.  I left it cooling on the counter, and was in my pajamas by 9:30.  Once it cooled a little, I’d put in in the fridge and reheat it in the morning.  I noticed, though, that it was oddly thin.  It had settled very flat in the pan, something I’d never seen before.  I vaguely wondered if it was because of the August heat somehow.  But I was too tired to ponder it much.  

Unfortunately, my early night didn’t happen.  In a completely unrelated situation, I had a friend who stopped by my apartment and needed my help, and I stayed up later than I intended helping her.  So again this morning I was dragging myself out of bed with too little rest and too much on the agenda.  

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I grabbed my flat quiche and headed to my Friday morning breakfast meeting.  As expected, everyone made a big deal about having the quiche since I’ve been gone for a few weeks, and I mentioned that I was nervous that it might not be “right” because it fell so flat.  But I was assured that no one would mind at all; it would surely all get eaten down to the last crumb, as usual.  We cut it into very flat squares and plated it for the table, when suddenly I knew why it was wrong! I jumped up with a gasp.  I never put in the eggs! A quiche is a French invention that depends heavily on a half dozen eggs, and I’d basically cooked a pie of only bacon, cheese, and cream.  Zut alors! The French would be highly insulted, indeed.  

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To be honest, it still tasted pretty good, and did get eaten to the crumbs (see the evidence here) but …. I’ve got to get some sleep before I forget anything else more vital to my life.