There's something about an egg. Apart from the fact that they come out of a birds bum that is. There is something wholesome and good about an egg, something noble and standout about one. "He's a good egg", you might have said in 1950, if referring to someone you liked or respected, and I think, yes, all the qualities of an egg are the ones I want in a friend. Singular in purpose, yet incredibly versatile, strong in some ways, terrible fragile in others and always able to surprise me. Not surprise me literally, I don't scream when ever I see one, but surprise me in just how good they can be, and particularly in their most simple guises.
Take a poached egg. Once you have figured out the slightly fernickerty process of making one, you have something magical. Be you a deep dish of water whizzing around at speed type person, your frantic spinning creating spheres of wobbly white with fondant yellow inside, or, the shallow pan of water type to make almost fried looking eggs, the addition of a poached egg to almost anything gives it a lift. A nice piece of smoked fish? Plop one on top. Some buttered spinach? Boom, eggs Florentine. Soup on a cold winters night? Suspend one in there for added comfort. Of course, just on a piece of toast with some bacon and mushrooms will do just as well. Breaking the yolk and watching that liquid gold spilling out over your toast is possibly one of the finest sights that a man can consider in the morning. One of them, mind, only one of them
There is something ever so slightly improbable about them. Something ever so slightly suspicious about the whole thing. I appreciate that in their primary role as reproductive vessels they are bound to contain stuff that is good to eat, stuff that is nutritious and energising; but being good to eat and then being able to turn into mayonnaise, cake or an omelette strikes me as showing off. If I didn't know better and was that way inclined I'd say someone had a hand in that particular venture. I'll avoid going any further with that particular line of thought before I start picketing school science buildings. Anyway, what am I getting at? You can't teach your grandmother to suck eggs. But she could probably teach you to make a kick ass souffle with them if only you shut up about the whole sucking thing and let her get to the kitchen.