Today, I decided I wanted to boil an egg so I could have an Omega-3 boiled egg, cheese and tomato sandwich (toasted) for lunch. The boiled egg used to be a staple of my single cooking repertoire. A long time ago, a friend taught me how to make perfect, just the right amount of soft boiled eggs with toast soldiers. I’d stick the egg in my egg cup, crack it and saw off the top with a knife — a very satisfying culinary achievement — then dip the toast in and be extremely happy. I hardly ever have soft-boiled eggs anymore, because I don’t think C. really believes in them. Anyway, what I’m saying is: at one time, I knew how boiling eggs worked; I could look at my little red egg timer and choose the perfect moment of lunar eclipse at which to remove the eggs and eat them.
So sure was I that I knew how to boil the eggs that I asked for no help. I let C. stay in his office while I was making them. I brought the water to a boil. I turned it off. I put in the egg timer and the eggs. You there yet?
I managed to salvage one of them by nuking it in the microwave for thirty seconds after spreading it on the toast. I managed to wait several hours before I revealed my process to C.