September 8, 2024

So Unpredictable

God, a fried egg is just great.

I don’t think I’ve ever had that strength of feeling for a fried egg. They are the least of my eggs¹, and eggs are the least of my non-vegan daydreams. On numerous occasions the scent or thought of a fried egg has sent a shiver down my spine, and though in my early twenties I perfected the art of poaching and scrambling (perfection is possible, in memory of me), I never bothered with the fried variety. Just not something I ever desired.

I’m moving on in my Start Here lessons from ‘Taste’ to ‘Temperature Management’, though there are still recipes I’ll be exploring in ‘Taste’. This lesson in heat, however, is ALL about eggs. Sohla² is sensible. She decrees that many mistakes are made with temperature (which is why cold salads are foremost in that initial lesson chapter), and that as eggs are cheap, your mistakes can be cheap too. I didn’t even contemplate experimenting with vegan alternatives for this initial lesson. I can replicate eggs in cookies, pancakes, sauces and scrambles without much fuss, but the whole home of a solo egg would require a level of thought and expense that, in my mind, defeats the point of the lesson. In future, I will likely try some needs-based, end-of-cupboard alternatives, but today, on this fine September morn, it’s a real egg. And now with added fried!

Rather than waste thoughts on egg-alternatives, I focussed my mind on the true challenge of this recipe: which pan to use. Sohla recommends “a medium or small cast-iron/carbon steel skillet”. The experiment I’ll be performing over the next lil while will be whether size, shape, or material is most important part of this advice. I went with the proposed material and shape (flat and round - will make more sense in the future), but she’s a big boi. I’m pretty sure that hauling this around Brockwell Park in a tote bag one Sunday was the first step down a path that led to me bored out of my mind, spider-crawling my fingers up a wall every day for two months³. I do love her, though, and I don’t use her enough.

I didn’t write out a game plan, but I prepped the rest of my breakfast as I usually would and just left space for an egg. Which I had no strong feelings about. I was excited to write about the process, but I wasn’t grossed out or desirous. It was so in my head that I didn’t need feelings (note: routine dampens need to rely on emotion/physical reaction. Is good/bad. nods head) to complete the action of cooking or eating.

I poured too much oil onto the base of the pan (and by too much, I mean about what you need), opened all the windows, and watched for that “shimmering and almost smoking” moment.

I know the shimmering - I have seen shimmering oil, but the “almost smoking” is a real Schrödinger’s cat, a tree in the woods, a one-handed clap⁴. Naturally, I waited until it was smoking, then turned the heat down. Same thing? Maybe not. I did have a big old think about cracking the egg into a jug first, so it poured nicely, and she does say “carefully crack”, but…washing up, environment etc etc. Anyway, I cracked it straight in so it looks like shit.

I also had a moment of not knowing what to do with the eggshell (cue Larry David skewer riff), so I forgot to add the one other ingredient and had to make do with salting my egg after it was plated up. So sad. Much mistake.

My dad used to fry eggs on a flat electric hob in a stainless steel pan. He’d have a fork ready to prop up the pan and baste the white until it was opaque, avoiding the the yolk so it was still a rich orpiment hue when served. I didn’t have any affection for those fried eggs as a whole, but the yolk, runny and colourful like that, has always been the ideal. My gas hob does not accommodate the supporting structure of a fork foundation, and the pan - well, she’s a mite too beefy to be tilted for any length of time. Especially not towards me, as Sohla wildly instructs. Hot oil towards me? No. No no. Not a good idea. I tipped the pan away from me for long enough to get the oil in a spoon and basted before the pan clattered down. My main aim was to avoid the mad clean and jerk crash I could feel coming if I held her for too long in the air. Egg and oil all over my face. What is a weakling to do?

I plated up, I ate, I thought it was fucking great. It could have done longer in the pan, or at higher heat (I never did turn it up after the smoke incident), because I think a really dark brown edge would be right up my alley, but I’m glad I took her out before the yolk got any lighter and harder. ‘Temperature Management 101’ does seem to be about mixing speed with patience, so here’s to me spending the next while watching Sandra Bullock in ‘The Net’ while crocheting.

If anyone does want a fried egg, let me know. I have five left and limited patience for airing out the entire house while I learn.