Crazy nights and lazy mornings

“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken." – MFK Fisher

I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.

Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.

As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.

I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.

But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.

I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.

It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.