The grey skies had removed the sun from view this morning, so the yellow yolk had to come on the number 12 shirt. I am not a fan of the fried breakfast, but the bowl of eggs from Mme Roustand’s hens, the sweet butter and the fresh bread seduced me. The small iron frying pan, that I had acquired at Dehillerin’s many years ago, is perfect for the lone egg eater. The butter stops foaming and the egg slides in to perform another of those pieces of kitchen close magic. Once out of the cocoon the metamorphosis takes place.
Being a food photographer and being hungry entails getting the picture as quickly as possible so that you can eat the food while it’s still hot. The only groceries that I ask friends and family to bring with them on visits from the UK are Maldon salt and Marigold stock, so a few flakes of the precious salt are the only addition.
The first cut is the deepest, and looks are forgotten as the the tastebuds take over. Written or spoken descriptions of the taste of something are as limited as the tongue’s sensory abilities. The nose and eyes are working overtime. To precis the experience – “It was as good as it gets”.