I'm in the middle of a travel triangle between Richmond, Kansas City, and LA for work.  Every now and then I get to come back Chicago to shower, and nourish my soul with the city's wonderful cuisine.  When it comes to cooking, I'm having problems figuring out what to make, because I don't want to waste my one chance at home cooking on something that could be bad.  And I'm scatterbrained from never knowing what time it is.

Lucky for me, a new farmer's market, the Glenwood Sunday Market, opened about 50m from my front door.  If this doesn't get me cooking, nothing will.  

I decide to make tonight's dinner purely from market items, so I can be a good locavore before I spend the rest of the week being exactly the opposite.  After a stroll down the street, I realize that it's too early to think.  I've been craving a BLT sandwich, so I decide to make something along those lines.

Growing up, BLTs were a highly coveted summertime special.  Even though we used microwaved pre-sliced bacon bought from a big box store, we heightened the experience with thick sliced, juicy backyard tomatoes--usually beefsteak.  Those giant red orbs that overran our backyard is how I think of tomatoes, and how they should taste.  Seeing piles of nondescript heirlooms at the market made me reminisce of our past bounties, and set this dish into motion.

After picking up a sourdough loaf from Bennison's Bakery, I visit King Hill's Farm for my precious tomatoes.  At the King Hill's Farm stand, I discover their stash of duck eggs.  I know there is no E in BLT, but these are delicious, and I need a condiment to compensate for my anti-mayo ways.  A runny yolk would be even better, and is kinda sorta half of what mayo is anyway.

I find lettuce to be frivolous.  It's mostly water, has no flavor, no nutrition, and marginal texture at best.  This leaves me stuck with a T sandwich at the moment.

I find my B, in the form of a brat (close enough), from Crafthouse Market Goods.  An unknown hero to me in the world of pork, this upstart has no front door, and travels the city offering their wonderful sausages.  I discover that their 'pirate-wurst' is fresh linguica in disguise, so I take a couple along with the 'bratwieler,' and their country pate, which are rarely available due to high demand.  As long as they keep selling by my front door, they will stay in business.

I get home about 30 seconds later, and rip all of my packages open like Ralphie on Christmas morning.  All I need from the pantry is salt, and duck fat to fry the duck eggs, and make the best possible toast for my sandwich.  

After a quick cut, the sourdough gets lathered in duck fat and thrown on my grill pan.  The pirate-wurst goes in a saute pan, the heirloom tomato gets sliced and salted, and I preheat my non-stick skillet for sunny-side up duck eggs.

After cracking the first egg, I find the yolk to be pleasantly enormous.  While it carefully frys, I take my bread off the grillpan, and build my open-faced sandwich.  Duck fat toast gets a mountain of spicy pirate-wurst sausage, and then mounted with a thick sliced of tomato.  Then I carefully slide the fried duck egg on top of the mountain, not daring to disturb the bountiful yolk.

I carefully lift the sandwich to my mouth, then rip in like a raptor.  The warm, rich duck yolk splashes on my face, then drips down my hands and onto my shirt, while some makes it back to the plate.  The tomato is cool, juicy and refreshing, even though it slides off the pile for further mess.  The spicy, pirate-wurst stands ground (mostly), and basks in golden sea of yolk.  Life, does not suck.