A good egg

My grandmother used to make me and my siblings poached eggs using plastic moulds in boiling water. The edges were always straight and the top flat, the yolk not runny but not hard. We were given two eggs each, propped on buttered toast. I was given the moulds after my grandmother died but left them in a drawer. My sister, meanwhile, has perfected her poached eggs. 'They have to be fresh,' she told me, making me breakfast after a long run across Hampstead Heath. 'Don't worry about the whirlpool but watch out for the wisp of a tail. The tail is important.' I nodded along as though in an effort to remember, but I was thinking about how clever we were to get to the top of Arkwright Road without stopping. 

I suppose I got used to people cooking me eggs. I got used to my mum's egg mayonnaise sandwiches, where the cool shells are methodically peeled from the bald flesh. And my brother's scrambled eggs, turned with a wooden spoon and plenty of butter. It never occured to me that at the age of thirty I'd be in a lockdown with a partner who despised them in all their forms, who bemoaned their rubbery texture and unavoidable egg-ness. When we first met I was aghast at his stories of being served mushroom omelettes and wanting to be sick. 'But you're a vegetarian!' I wailed, listing all the ways to cook an egg I could think of and asking whether he would eat them. 'How much are you paying me?' He asked. 'Am I allowed to do anything I want to them or do I have to eat them as presented? Can I smother them in ketchup? How many eggs?' 'Three,' I said. 'Scrambled. No condiments.' It turned out the going rate for the egg-phobic was 200 quid. 

In Runaway Bride, the way Julia Roberts likes her eggs says more about her romantic choices than anything else. And while I would never pretend to not like eggs to appease my lover, it would be nice to slap down two plates of toast and beans with a sunny yolk staring up at me from each hand. It would be nice to have egg synchronicity. Instead I set the plates down one Sunday lockdown morning and top mine alone with a fried egg. We pretend we're in a cafe on England's Lane that always forgets our order and I take care not to burn the halloumi. 

It's on days like these I realise I like the same old shit. I'll never get bored of tea and toast, or the peaks of slathered butter that accompany it. I'll always want a chocolate bar and a packet of crisps after smelling the chlorine of a swimming pool. Garlic bread will always be the best food to eat on a Friday night. But I also realise my favourite kind of eggs are poached and made by someone else.  And even though in 2018 I wrote down very specific instructions given to me by a friend (Simmer the water/Crack the egg in, don't touch it for 1 min/Turn the heat off and move it off/Leave for 3 mins), I know I'll never try them myself. I'll make eggs any other way: boiled, fried, scrambled, in an omelette, but don't make me poach one. Maybe I don't want to spoil the illusion, or maybe I'm just spoiled. I just know it's not for me. 

Instead I'll stay inside and wait until I can sit at someone else's kitchen table and listen to how they learnt to poach an egg with meticulous delicacy. I'll wait for them to serve it to me on toast, and laugh about how normal it feels. I'll wait to congratulate them on the ribbon of runny yolk that I mop up with my toast. I'll wait and wait and wait.

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This week I'm eating: The Lasagne Man, seriously good homemade lasagne delivered in foil cartons ready for heating up at home (with a side of focaccia and tiramisu for good measure). And hot cross buns with lots of butter at three o'clock, or whenever the day starts to drag.