A Frittata that Gives New Meaning to the Phrase "Breakfast of Champions"
The size of the red shack-like diner known as Mother's Cupboard contrasts starkly with the four-pound frittata I shared with my boyfriend.
There was, as usual, a wait at this Central New York establishment, and I pondered the possibilities of having a heart attack at the end of the meal. But the kindly staff and the promise of an unforgettable culinary experience overrode every sensible cell in my body.
Forty minutes passed. Then a mound of potatoes, eggs, veggies, meat, and cheese--topped with a slice of bread--challenged the growling monster in my tummy to a match. Who would survive? The growling monster or the carbohydrate extravaganza?
Neither, as it turns out. I left exactly one spoonful on the plate before stumbling out to the car, where I promptly unbuttoned my jeans and reclined my seat.
My heart hasn't attacked me yet, so I'm thinking of tempting it again when I return to the city of my alma mater.