Eggs and merry adventures
I also like to think I am not too bad with my hands. I can draw, I can sculpt to a degree, I can paint, I can even sew, if sewing involves multiple stab wounds and being rushed to hospital while slipping about in pools of one's own blood.
So therefore, I'd like to think that cooking breakfast at two in the morning might be a task that was not beyond me. Alas, I overestimate myself. I do occasionally wonder if I need adult supervision just to function.
I would like to think that not having access to a kitchen as such for an entire academic year has deadened my skills somewhat. Yes, that's what I'm telling myself. It all began with a simple yet powerful twinge of nostalgia, a desire to make fried eggs the way my Dad used to. With soldiers. You don't have soldiers with boiled eggs, piffle, you have them with fried eggs. Don't argue: I'm Irish.
Overlooking a few burned fingers from an overenthusiastic toaster, the soldiers were created without severe bodily injury. The fried eggs may have been more of a challenge. I cracked the first egg with a knife, opened it up and poured it into the frying pan, managing to split the yolk entirely, making it complete rubbish. Pooh, it happens, I haven't done it for a while. It's easy to split the yolk. Unless you're making scrambled eggs, where you actually have to shortly split the yolk with a fork, in which case it never splits. But anyway.
Being incredibly fussy, I disposed of the first attempt and went to try it again, still foolishly comfident in my abilities. I've done this many times before, there's no challenge involved. I cracked the egg with a knife again, and opened it up over the pan.
The yolk split again. Oh curse you vile and evil and shady deity of your choice, what the crap. As the yolk and the white mixed together merrily while I glared at it, I had a thought. Poached eggs. I like poached eggs. Poached eggs are nice too. Poached eggs may look like utter shit that was rolled around the frying pan by a particularly inept two year old with only half an arm, but they still taste the same. So I salvaged the remains of the dead fried egg, into a poached egg. Viola. I'm not completely stupid, after all. I shifted the poached egg out of the frying pan and onto a plate, and took one more egg.
Oho, I thought. Perhaps it was because I was splitting the egg with a knife that it was all going wrong. Well, lets be manly and bash it on the side of the pan.
After successfully getting egg white on the hob (sorry Mum!) I opened the egg up over the frying pan again. Naturally, it was split.
At this point I was almost hopping about on one foot (it made sense at the time) in a rage, cursing like the Irishwoman I am, with a newfound urge to throw the remainder of the eggs out of the window. While the beautiful thought of propelling unfertilised fowl ovums at high velocity through holes in the wall struggled to take over me, I overcame it eventually.
After pacifying myself by coming to the conclusion that there was something really, really wrong with the eggs, and that I had in fact bought eggs with readily split yolks, I gave up and made another poached egg.
That will not do at all. Poached eggs don't really go with soldiers.
Fortunately, my dear Mother - like any sensible person - is fast asleep at two in the morning, and is therefore unable to come into the kitchen and box my ears because of the mess I've made. I also have ample time to clean up.
I have no idea how my Father made them so perfectly and neatly. Not at all. Apparantly, it's not a genetic thing.