Sometimes, only an egg will do. At the end of a long, tough week, I was (like many others, I have no doubt) feeling tired, washed out and run down. For three days I'd been feeling off, vaguely unwell and uninterested in eating. By Friday I decided enough was enough, but felt too tired and too nervous to concoct anything involving more than 5 ingredients and salt. Naturally, an egg was the answer. Not scrambled or fried (the thought of milk or butter made my stomach churn), and the idea of just boiling one seemed to depressing to contemplate. I concluded that, while the day had not been much of a success, there was still an opportunity to turn things around - so I decided to be adventurous. I'd poach one instead.
Sadly that isn't even a joke. For someone who considers themselves an able cook, a poached egg is something I had never attempted alone. I usually just hovered behind my mum, marvelling at the strange alchemy that takes place when you crack an egg into water. I think it was always generally presumed by all (myself included) that I was simply too clumsy to pull it off. I'd always wanted to try, but always managed to avoid it, declaring that it was too faffy, too likely to go wrong. Boiling is simple, reliable and free from goo: leave the poaching to the chefs at the Wolseley. Yet for some unfathomable reason, after a hopeless day and a harrowing week, I decided to give it a go. After all, while there is ample opportunity for disaster, when done correctly, a poached egg is rather miraculous - dainty and delicate, with a completely unique texture and flavour. And it is extremely à la mode, of course, overtaking menus and Instagram feeds worldwide. (Please note that no avocados were harmed during the creation of this meal.)
Not willing to rely on my memory for this grand undertaking, I consulted Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's Veg, which has a double page spread dedicated to the dish of poached egg on toast. With one finger on the recipe, I brought a pan of water to the boil, cracked an egg in a ramekin, and used a spoon to create a whirlpool. It took almost a minute to get anything resembling a vortex - exactly how are you supposed to create a space into which an egg can drop whole? Taking a deep breath, I tipped it in and rammed on the lid, switching off the heat, as directed by HFW.
It was at about this moment that I started swearing.
As I looked on in horror, the egg started spinning in the water, wispy and translucent, like a ghost caught in a cyclone. I turned away to prepare the toast and heard a strange popping sound, followed by the characteristic thump of a pan lid being lifted up and down by internal pressure. "What is this monster I have created?" I thought to myself, grimacing and turning to look back at the pan. Bits of egg white had drifted from the centre and seemed to be boiling, creating a bad-smelling, eggy foam, which promptly spilled over the edge of the pan, and onto the hob. I swiftly moved the blasted thing away from the heat, and removed the lid. The water ceased to splutter, but the lid was left covered in a web of sticky ectoplasm. Delightful.
The toaster popped, the timer beeped, and the moment had come to test the egg. Tablespoon in hand (I am yet to acquire a slotted one for the purpose) I lifted the blobby monstrosity from the water and poked it gingerly. To my great relief, nothing popped, ooozed or splattered. Just the faintest hint of a wobble, which I took to be a good sign. I scraped the butter packet with a knife and spread it on the toast, and slipped the egg onto it. After a dusting of salt and pepper, I eased a small knife through its glimmering surface. Sadly there was no cascade of yolky gold, as promised by HFW's image, but it was soft and yellow, and seemed full of potential. Not even bothering to take it to the table, I stood by the toaster and took a bite. It was the ultimate combination of good bread (strong and sour - photo above), salty butter and creamy egg. Well, half an egg anyway, given how much was lost to the water. Still, it had the desired effect; my shoulders relaxed and I sighed, tension melting away at the pure joy of having tried something and succeeded (mostly), and finding that it tasted good.
I ate with great determination, hunger appearing from nowhere, and found myself thinking of The Deep Blue Sea. This bizarre jump from toast to Terence Rattigan was due to the current production of the play at the National Theatre, directed by Carrie Cracknell and starring the wondrous Helen McCrory. In the final scene of this production, (SPOILER) once Hester has realised that Freddie is never coming back, she knows she has a choice. Try to end her life again, or carry on. For the second time in the play she goes to prepare something to eat - pulling out slices of white bread, and cracking an egg violently into a pan. She starts collect Freddie's things, cradling his jacket to her chest like a child, weeping openly. The audience still has no idea what she will do: will she go on? Or will she turn back to the gas fire and aspirin? She continues to sob, and just as you think she's about to succumb to the darkness, she is roused by a crackling and spitting noise from the pan. She busies herself at the stove, still crying all the while, scoops up the egg and throws it at the bread. She takes her plate to the chair, sits and looks at it, and, with great determination, takes a bite. And then the lights go down.
It is an astonishing moment, theatre at its most simple and powerful. With the simple motion of eating an egg (a symbolic food in itself after all - representing the beginning of all life), Hester demonstrates that she must go on, that life must continue beyond heartbreak. She knows there is more to life, and more to her than past experiences have shown. From the mire of desperation in which she was drowning, a kernel of strength pushed her onwards, despite all her inclination to the contrary.
Fictional as they may be, her actions are some of the most inspirational I have ever seen on stage. And while my situation at the end of the week was in no way comparable to hers, I couldn't help but feel that to eat an egg with great conviction was a good way to reset, to adjust one's viewpoint and remember that the world would not end after three bad days. As Mr Miller, the kindest voice in the play, says "go to sleep, get up and go on living." And we must. No matter what. Tomorrow we can try again.
