As many people know, I have a mild obsession with eggs – their perfectly smooth, rotund form, the number of different amazing things you can do with them, and, most of all, the delicious oozing of a perfectly liquid, bright yellow yolk crawling magnificently out of the solid white, preferably onto a crusty English muffin or a wholesome bit of seeded batch.
Mayonnaise is made from them. Cakes are made from them. They top a healthy salad with an air of indulgence, but they’re still healthy. Are they magic?
The ultimate weekend pleasure: poached Burford Browns on their Benedictine mattress – smoked salmon – and topped with yellow, buttery hollandaise (also made from – who’d have thought it – the genius egg). Or scrambled in just butter – not overdone and rubbery, but runny and creamy and rich and exquisite tasting.
Such a small little object, the egg, and yet one that brings me consistent, unadulterated, unambiguous happiness. I love the fact that such a simple, easy phenomenon creates these little pockets of time where all there is in the world is me and my cherished friend the egg, where I am a relaxed yellow yolk and the walls of my house are an agreeable shell cocooning me into a cosy rotunda of contentedness.
hmm...eggyliscious
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