In affirmation of my lack of any knowledge or skill in the culinary arts, I’ve just had to look up instructions on how to soft-boil an egg.
I actually like the whites quite runny, so I would probably let it sit for only a few minutes! Neil and his mother think I’m absolutely gross and disgusting for sitting there and spooning runny eggs into my gaping maw. Hehe.
One of my fondest memories as a child who generally wouldn’t eat anything more than crisps and Coke is weekends with my grandparents (because my grandmother was a good cook), when Saturday (or was it Sunday) mornings meant waking up to a soft-boiled egg. It would sit there in its egg cup, quietly contemplating its last moments of existence. My grandmother would remove the top and add just the tiniest of dashes of Maggi Seasoning, then we would sit at the kitchen table, raise our tiny teaspoons, and dig in.
I don’t know if it’s a sign of my ‘just existing’ or general quarter- to mid-life ennui (because it’s so easy to exaggerate angst), but after decades of not indulging in runny soft-boiled eggs, I’ve got a serious hankering. Even after I attempted a not-so-successful egg boiling last weekend, I’m not daunted. I shall try again, and I WILL triumph over the egg.
Egg, you don’t scare me. I’m gonna get you. I’m gonna boil ya and slurp ya up without even a pitying thought for the chick you might have been if your mother wasn’t a battery hen and not allowed anywhere near a rooster.