And yet cooking eggs on their own is one of the most daunting tasks I've encountered in my cooking endeavors.
First, we have scrambled eggs. Those are pitifully easy to cook. Babies could make scrambled eggs while still in the womb. It's a simple affair of beating eggs--a fairly messy but simple task--and frying them until they're big, solid, fluffy pillows of cholesterol. But much like a sandwich, just because it's simple doesn't mean it tastes the part. The light and fluffy texture melts on the tongue and soon disappears along with a mild, smooth taste. Scrambled eggs form one of the high pillars of my childhood sustinence (along with hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob).
Then a simple enhancement upon that classic is the omelet, which I won't even approach in my full interest because I have homework to do. But to sum it up, omelets are like a canvas for exploration, creativity, reflection, and--unfortunately--disaster. You see, the blank eggs presented to you are like life. And you have to fill them up with all sorts of things--all of which amount to your choice. You slowly watch your life go by, through the good--like sizzling ham or onions in the pan--and of course the bad--maybe a funny looking piece of pepper or mushrooms (I'm not fond of mushrooms)--but either way, the contents are all minor things when the time comes to put the cheese on and then a seemingly minor moment occurs: the folding. Of course, this seemingly meaningless event is a metaphor for life. You have just once real chance to pull this off, and anything can happen. Ideally, the fold occurs in the middle of the circular scrambled egg matter, but sometimes an asymmetrical miscalculation can lead to a hellish nonsense for breakfast. Or even worse, the eggs might still be a bit too liquid and rupture at the middle. There's no turning back there, you might as well drop your standards and enjoy your eggy mess, like a once hopeful art major dropping out of college. But the best people will have an omelet fit for a king, perhaps not perfect, a little bit burnt on the edges, but you made it buddy. And to bring this metaphor with life and life itself full circle, perhaps a breakfast gone correctly--or awry--can affect a day, and perhaps a day can affect your life. Maybe that omelet 'turn' will lead to the same 'turn' in your life and you have no way of seeing it coming.
But I digress, the traditional fried egg is where I find my way of expertise. Despite being a painfully simple dish, there are so many functions and methods for making it. Now, for my tastes, a very liquid yolk is a no-go. On sandwiches it leads to soaked hands, clothes, and bread. A very bad business. And if you ask me, the soupy yolk tastes a bit bloody. And when it's overcooked, the yolk is a dry, mineralesque nonsense that really isn't that good, although a slightly overcooked egg works fine on a sandwich. And worst of all, the egg turns into rubber.
I've spent many a morning trying to make the perfect standalone fried egg. Often I would simply cook it in a hollowed out piece of bread, called a toad-hole or something similar. While it's quite a tasty getup, it never truly reaches the level of beauty I've imagined. Once I recall trying to use water to fry a covered egg, but it was disgusting; I ended up with a partially poached panfull of piss. Other times I've come closer, but upon the crucial turning of the eggs the yolk would splatter and overcook.
But that was not the case this morning. I planned to make toad-holes, but after a misunderstanding with the countertop beast toaster I was left with charcoal bread. I decided I would risk it. I cracked the egg in the incredibly greasy pan and watched as the egg sizzled and bubbled--normally a bad sign but it did not present a problem upon this occasion. After throwing away the corresponding shell, I watched as the egg fry in the low heat of my tried-and-true pan. After a dose of Lawry's Seasoned Salt (later to be found to be a bit too much, but I wasn't completely concerned), the moment of truth came. I slid my turner under the egg and flipped it. With anticipation for the sight of yolk running loose, I looked and saw none, my eyes lighting up like the embers of warmth cooking this wonderous egg. I was running down victory road as I allowed the top cook before placing it upon my plate with some otherwise non-notable scrapple.
But now I was scared; probability was not on my side. It was time to try and repeat this dazzling feat. So I thorougly lubed up my pan and cracked my egg in the pan and watched it cook until it came time to flip. Now this one was even less on my side. the yolk was directly in the middle, meaning that when I flipped it, the yolk would travel a longer distance and be in the air longer. It was very likely that it would have busted upon impact with the pan surface. But if it did, I wouldn't have made this blog post, now would I? The egg peacefully sizzled away as my heart was filled with breakfast mirth.
I took the plate away to my room and dug in, only to discover that this ordeal was even better than expected. The yolks were in the perfection peak of doneness. The exteriors were just behind the threshold of overdone, leading to a perfect goopy layer. Inside, the yolk was a gradient of decreasing solidity until I reached a gel-like core. the flavors of both the buttery, salty white and the rich, robust yolk danced within my mouth and brought me great bliss. The second egg was a bit better, albeit a tad bit less done--however still within the area of mindblowing. I sat back and reflected upon the beauty I just ate.
And note, through this long, raw, regurgitation of emotion I've only touched some of the wonders of nature's true culinary wonder. The incredible, edible, egg.
