I can well understand the clucking of hens a laying and I am in awe of the stoicism that prevents them from declaring more stridently.Just considering the concept of a life spent passing objects the size of one’s head ( one being a hen at this point) is enough to make one, certainly this one, scream “Cluck” at the top of my clucking voice. Should I have bent gender and ended up in chickens’ shoes, the scarcity of eggs would only be equal to the market saturation of hens’ teeth. However, putting this heartfelt sympathy smoothly aside, there is nothing I enjoy more than a hard boiled egg from time to time. That is not quite the truth…..there is nothing I enjoy more than the idea of a hard boiled egg from time to time.
This “idea” that gives me so much pleasure springs from early morning visits to bars whilst shopping in the markets of France. Standard fare is a small, chilled glass of Muscadet and a hard boiled egg. Conversation continues unabated as eggs are tapped on the zinc and the mazy, fractured shell is carefully picked away to reveal the ivory tear. Teeth slide through the containing soft coat of white to reveal the golden yolk within. Egg yolks in this “idea” are deep, wet yet set yellow in the middle and crowned with a halo of chrome yellow flakes. It’s the precision of the detail in the “idea” that prevents me from making or eating hard boiled eggs lest they should be less than the “idea”. Eating them blindfolded is a thought, but I’m still left with another problem. There are very few virgin foodstuffs that I find unpalatable but egg white in a boiled egg, hard or soft, is one of them yet I still dream the dream.