So it is that for the last 6 weeks or so, eggs have been banished, and, actually, it seems to be working (touch wood).
Now, you'd think that having found a potential trigger and stopped nasty painful yuck-stomach in its tracks for a while would make me happy. But I am a contrary creature, and thus all it appears to have done is to place the egg on a shiny, glittering pedestal of utter deliciousness in my brain. To the point that whenever Matt asks the inevitable 'What shall we do for dinner?' question, I have to refrain from shrieking 'EggseggseggsEGGSeggsarrrrrgheggs!' at him.
|Photo from Delia online|
Give me poached eggs on toast, topped in smoked salmon.
Give me a full English with them buttery, bright yellow and scrambled, or fried and ready to burst and ooze gold with the first touch of a fork.
Give me hollandaise sauce to eat with a spoon; give me glossy mayonnaise spread thick on crusty white bread; I want creamy, peppery carbonara; I want the glorious mix of bearnaise and ketchup to dip my chips in (possibly frowned upon by other foodies, for which I apologise ...try it, non-believers, it's divine).
Deliver me a spicy pepper and chorizo omelette, the eggs stained pinkish orange from the meat juices; I want eggs en cocotte with earthy, and oh-so-indulgent morels; give me eggy bread, crusty with sugar and sticky with maple syrup and strawberries, and please, oh please, give me thick, sunny custard.
This has been cathartic. Thank you.