Cranky has taken over the kitchen.
He's always been very useful, resourceful, creative in there. Now he's God. (Don't tell Eric Clapton.)
I've been "off" food, and if it weren't for Cranky, I'd be living on gummy bears.
So what if the last three meals were eggy? Eggs are good, and take it from me, not always easy to cook well.
Somebody in the house cooks eggs well, and I think it isn't yours truly, madly. I do OK, but have you ever heard of the Two-Sentence Poached Egg?
First of all, the photo is today's lunch of a frittata filled with chopped spinach, shallots and smoked ham. Artfully arranged atop a spill of tomato sauce. I didn't take pictures of yesterday's fried rice with egg and veggies, or yesterday's poached egg atop polenta. Because the damn cook did such a good job, I was punishing him by no piccies. (OK, I am not that merciless a wife. No piccies because too lazy.)
Here's the story of the Two-Sentence Poached Egg.
Cranky thinks he can barely remember if he's ever poached eggs in his previous life as a pretty decent cook. So he asked me how to do it, while I cuddled the puppy in bed.
I could go into detail of what I told him, but you all have your own methods, so who cares? I told him how I do it, really, really briefly.
In a couple of minutes, he came back and asked how long they should stay in the simmering water. I told him my opinion, which made him run back to the kitchen and save the (dammit!) yolks-still-runny, whites-perfectly-jelled eggs. In time. Pulled them out, blotted them and blopped them on the steaming, creamy polenta.
It's not supposed to happen this way.
But if you don't think I'm glad, you're mad!
I'm so glad.