Eggs Incognito [The Garden Brew Trilogy — Part 2]

Eggs Incognito [The Garden Brew Trilogy — Part 2]

Could my lifelong aversion to boiled eggs possibly explain my theory that I am firing blanks? What if my failure at a union with an unfertilised egg was the result of a show of solidarity among the order of ovum protesting my childhood rejection of their brethren cooked using various methods?

How ironic that eggs now play a pivotal part in my homemade garden brew and buying half a dozen free-range is a weekly requirement. The pressing question is, therefore, what to do with them as they approach their best before date. The transitory pleasure of dipping my solider into a warm and luscious yoke of the occasional soft boiled version cannot compensate for the insipid plain white that remains but that goes for many things in life.

My Nan made a very respectable coddled egg that would suitably ooze across the toast and, once smothered in ketchup, would fill a hole whenever I was so famished that I could ‘eat a monkey with the measles’. However, serve overcooked scrambled egg and I have a gag reflex long before the dry globules reach the mouth.

Roommate introduced ‘student meal’ to our breakfast vernacular — a reference to dormitories across his homeland; a fat-fryer fraternity that would put the fear of god into the Health & Safety inspectorate here. My grandparents’ generation would quickly recognise this meal as the staple of egg & chips but doubtless neither party would indulge in triple cooked fries much loved by Michelin wannabes. So, sure, I can stomach a fried egg or two, whether it comes as part of an occasional full English breakfast or simply on toast, but familiarity builds contempt.

The humble poached egg has been revisited by the masterchef brigade, with the theatre of a centrifugal swirl and a drop of vinegar to set the white, then served on top of a stacked brunch so that once broken-open the yoke drizzles enticingly down; but nope, still unconvinced. I have, however, recently pondered the fate of my Nan’s poacher, a kitchen utensil whose appearance on the hob was always welcomed by middle brother, a feeling I didn’t share, as it went about its business bathing four eggs in a gentle simmer for one of his favourite teatime treats.

The solution I have arrived at is to take my eggs incognito; disguised in a tortilla, buried in a baked custard or dispersed in a fried rice. A palatable reminder that it’s actually the discarded shells I require for their calcium rich contribution to the garden brew. A caution though, best practice demands that the fragments are microwaved to kill off any lingering bacteria. I confess mine just get a quick rinse before sinking to the bottom of the bucket.

So as I strive to improve my garden’s fertility with this tonic, each empty shell reminds me of my hitherto indifference towards egg-centric meals and, more recently, has had me ponder on why I failed to find a suitable recipe to fertilise an egg of a different kind.

[Kindly note that this is part of a wider collection titled ‘Just Crumbs’ — Please refer to the ‘foreword’ page for an explanation.]

As a precursor, I invite you to listen to … How D’ya Like Your Eggs In The Morning? — Dean Martin

There can’t be many songs that address a variety of egg recipes as does this track but also be suggestive of an entirely different matter as I hope the ‘crumb’ conveys.