Monthly Archives: February 2018

The Best Way to Cook an Egg?

Perfect Poaching

You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

But why would you want to? It seems such a waste,

no matter how good the omelette tastes.

 

An egg, the perfect package, so simple, so neat;

wholesome nutrition, a delight to eat.

But how best to cook it; in so many ways,

the pros, the cons, leave your mind in a haze.

 

To fry, to scramble, to coddle, to boil,

can all be messy, or entail use of oil.

Calorific consequence, excessive fat;

to be avoided, no need for that.

Simple poaching is not free from troubles;

the white can fragment, amidst seething bubbles.

So, how to cook it? Aye, there’s the rub;

but my proposal goes to the nub.

 

Poach perfect eggs, in a poaching pod.

It floats on the water, cooks gently, in steam;

safely delivers the egg of your dreams.

A free gift of nature, from Mother Earth;

another page, in the oeuvre of the oeuf.

Eschew wasteful omelettes, be kind to yourself;

think of the clutter, the calories, your health.

Be at ease with the world, in peace with your God;

poach perfect eggs, in a poaching pod.

I’ve always liked poached eggs – as long as they’re cooked by somebody else.  Whenever I stay at a hotel, I invariably opt for Poached Eggs on Toast for my breakfast.  Yet I’ve always found poaching an egg to be quite a tricky procedure, with the result that, when cooking eggs at home, I usually end up frying them, as a quick and easy option.  I saw a TV programme recently in which eggs were said to have an ingredient that was effective in protecting your eyes against age-related problems such as cataracts – but you had to eat at least six eggs a week, to bring this about.  Inspired by this news, I suddenly became obsessed with finding out the easiest way to poach an egg, with a view to having a poached egg for breakfast every day.  The final outcome of my researches resulted in my purchasing a couple of “Poaching Pods”, which also was the inspiration for the above poem.

 

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When Everywhere Closed Down on Sunday

Sad Sunday

School kids, teenagers, alive today,
can have no conception of the Sad Sunday.
Those Sundays in the sixties, my teenage years,
deepened my depression, fomented my fears.

Shops closed, libraries closed, cafes closed,
cinemas closed, theatres closed, pubs closed.
Everywhere closed, and everywhere around,
the unsettling silence of a gloomy ghost town.
No trains, no buses, nothing to do
but go to church, join the dwindling few
wriggling in discomfort, in an unforgiving pew.

I was miserable at school; in the bottom class.
I couldn’t please the teachers, could never pass
examinations; never learnt the trick.
I felt I should do better; knew I wasn’t thick,
for on my own, at home, purely out of choice,
I’d read Camus and Sartre, Beckett and Joyce.
And I knew what they meant, what they were saying:
no point to religion, no point in praying.
Existential Angst; just another way to say
what I was living through, every Sad Sunday.

Sisyphus’s boulder, every seven days
loomed nearer and nearer; became huge in my gaze.
Saturday night, it rolled down the hill;
Sunday morning, it settled into place.

I would read The Myth of Sisyphus,
think of next morning’s dreaded school bus.
In depths of despair, I’d let out a groan,
huddle under the sheets; start pushing the stone.

I was a teenager in the 1960’s, and I still vividly remember how every Sunday seemed like a day of doom and depression for me.  As I detail in the poem, just about every place of interest or entertainment seemed to be closed, and I was left with little to do except to brood on the impending horrors of starting back at school the next day.  Having somehow managed to pass the “Eleven-Plus” exam, I was attending a grammar school run by black-robed Roman Catholic brothers, who were strict disciplinarians – and I hated it.  These days, I have no sympathy at all for the minority of people who bemoan the fact that Sunday is no longer a “special” day, and, remembering those “Sad Sundays”, I can’t help thinking how lucky teenagers are today.

 

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