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.  

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.  

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.