One of my husband’s culinary successes has always been perfect fried eggs. And one of his favorite meals is egg and chips. Nowdays it’s my fall-back meal when I’m too tired to cook, even though I’ve never been able to fry an egg. Take last night.
I got out the eggs, skillet, oil, plates for him. I put the frozen chips in the oven and called Peter to fix the eggs when the chips were nearly done.
I sat down to read for a few minutes, but his grumbling got me up to see what was wrong. “These eggs are no good,” he growled. “I can’t get them out.” He had an egg in his left hand and was trying to peel it with his right, as if it had been soft-boiled for soldiers.
“Shall I do it?” I asked and cracked another against the skillet. In the meantime, he dumped the raw egg he’d scrambled in its shell into the skillet too. Except for that one, my eggs were done perfectly — first time ever! — and the chips were as good as frozen ones ever are.
Afterwards he thanked me and said he enjoyed our little snack. “What’s for afters?” he asked.
“Applesauce.” He was blank. “Stewed apple,” I translated.
Lately I’ve been helping him clear up after we eat. He just can’t seem to manage the task anymore. But this was a simple meal, with just plates and silverware for the dishwasher and cookie sheet and skillet for the sink. I went to watch the news.
“How am I going to get this stuff off?” he yelled. He was poking at the submerged cookie sheet which appeared to be floating on an oil slick.
“What did you put in the water?” I asked. He didn’t know, but I suspect he either dumped in the canola oil out of the skillet, or poured some straight from the bottle in lieu of dishwashing liquid. “Did you put the Dawn in?”
“Didn’t know I was supposed to,” he said.
Deep breath. “You go have your tea. I’ll take care of this.” I sopped up as much as I could and hoped all that oil wouldn’t glom up the drain.
It didn’t, but this morning when I came downstairs, the eggs in the refrigerator were soft boiled. The fridge had gone on the fritz in the night and warmed to 70°. Not a laughing matter.
Glossary of English vs American terms:
His chips are our French fries (Crisps, btw, are potato chips)
His stewed apple is our applesauce
Soldiers are strips of crustless buttered toast, dunked into soft-boiled eggs, (pointy ends removed neatly), that are placed in an egg cup. Why “soldiers?” Don’t ask me, I’m an American.
Header photo: Frambled eggs, photo courtesy Epicurious.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
No matter what, you just keep soldiering on. We are all so lucky to have you Mom.
And I, you.
Ah no. Fridge shopping. YUCK
I finally managed to get it to cool down by afternoon. Stalled the shopping again for a while…
Hope the new fridge is not the same ordeal as the new stove!!!
Guess you’ll be cooking the eggs, now that you’re so good at it!!
The eggs will be frambled however. I’ve always preferred scrambled, Peter, fried, so it’ll be the best of both worlds. As to fridge…I may look for an old-fashioned ice box and be done with it.
Maybe the door was ajar and that is why it was warm??????
I wish it were that simple, Robin. This has happened periodically over the past several years, though this was the first time it was an overnighter. Fixed for now and I’m on to the next problem-solving exercise. 😉