Tuesday, 16 August 2016
My difficult relationship with poached eggs
Poached eggs and I have a poor relationship. Oh, I can eat them all right - no probem - but I cannot for the life of me make one.
Look at the poached egg in the picture. Lovely, isn't it? The yolk neatly swaddled like a newborn baby in its smooth white blanket. But not mine. Ooooh no. Mine all, and I mean all, turn out to look like ghosts, trailing flimsy strands of ectoplasm (or even "trailing clouds of glory"*) behind them. Half the ectoplasm always remains behind, drifting forlornly in the saucepan, too decimated to bother with, and then sticks and is impossible to scrub off.
Please don't tell me to:
Use boiling water
Use simmering water
Use off-the-boil-altogether water
Swirl the water
Don't swirl the water
Use fresh eggs
Use old eggs
For I have tried all these things, and the result, every time, is another ghost.
So I bought an egg poacher; one of those saucepans that have little plastic nests for the eggs. That'll teach them, I thought. They can't jump out of that. But this didn't work, either. They stuck to the nests, and weren't done properly, because how do you know when they're cooked underneath?
So I've decided to give up on the poached eggs. Next time, I shall fry them. You know where you are with a fried egg.