When we were in Italy, my uncle and his husband repeatedly declared, about pretty much any food, that it would make a beautiful frittata. Leftover sausage? A beautiful frittata. Spaghetti? A beautiful frittata. Eggs? Well, you get the idea.
I was home Saturday night by my lonesome, Mr. Pea being out on the town, and decided that I would make myself one of these supposedly beautiful things. In the spirit of “You can add anything,” my frittata (which I made in our 10″ skillet) contained two chicken breasts, seasoned, baked and diced; a 10 ounce box of spinach, thawed and squeezed; and onions, garlic, and mushrooms, sauteed and cooled. I put a little oil in the pan, combined all of these ingredients with four beaten eggs, topped with some parmesan cheese, and popped it on a medium burner. I allowed it to cook until it appeared largely set through, and then popped it under the broiler to finish. Now when I’ve seen frittatas before, they don’t stick to the pan. Mine did a little. Oh well. From what I understand, the bottom isn’t supposed to brown. Mine did. I didn’t care. I ate a slice of it with some diced fresh local tomato, dressed with a wee pinch of sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil. It was healthy and tasty, part of the new way of life in these parts, and to some extent, it was even beautiful.