Friends who have eaten on at least ‘x’ number of occasions with me will know that I am hopelessly in love with eggs.
Put a plate of eggs with gooey yolks wobbling in sunset fabulous-ness in front of me, and I will say yes to anything. Well, almost anything.
I love eggs, cooked any way, poached, sunny-side up, soft-boiled, omelette (with goo and a happy amount of fluffiness, please). Drizzle some salted egg yolk generously over anything, and I’ll go weak in my knees too. Just don’t give the crap you call hard-boiled eggs with overcooked, sulky, grey yolks. I positively hate them. And because I hate them, I’ve learnt to time my egg-cooking so obsessively to match the size of the eggs, that I get hard-boiled ones with soft, ooozy yolks every time I make them. I am somewhat, an egg chef and an egg connoisseur.
You do know, by now, that it’s all about the yolk, don’t you? I was hopping mad when I saw this on our room service menu in NYC.
Don’t. Ever. Mess with my eggs.