This morning, in this new year, Peter and I turned the radio off. Who wants to listen to all that moaning about stuff that we can do nothing about. It’s a different world for us war time babies now. Anyway, we didn’t listen to the radio. We went down to our less than warm kitchen, turned the heater on and Peter boiled an egg. He loves cooking an egg for me. He has a whole ceremony. It is intense and organised. He is an engineer. He knows about systems. He has designed them all his life. I would never dare to intervene. I am only allowed to make the toast and this is under supervision. This morning, the toast wasn’t quite right. Despite being cooked in a posh toaster, it wasn’t really cooked to the correct level. I knew that there would be analysis.
The bread that made the toast was his own make. He became seriously perplexed. He had used some spelt flour, but he wasn’t sure in which loaf. At this point, some people would start to debate, but wisely, I was comforting. I thought that we could “ look at this problem later.” Peter agreed, but of course we didn’t debate it later because, by now, he was in his workshop trying out equipment, which had arrived from the Screwfix sale. Yes, guys, it’s on!
Anyway, to return to the egg. First off, two, or four eggs are taken out of the fridge the night before they are cooked to warm. Having done this, we don’t watch the News, because we will get worked up. I read and Peter plays his music. The two do not go together. Furthermore, the little child next door is probably about to go to bed, so he turns the Stones off. I can read my book, Peter will turn to his computer and review the days pictures from some group who have asked him to arbitrate. Sometimes, I sit through University Challenge while Peter answers all but one or two of the questions. This is enormously entertaining. Amal Raja is really on the case. He is incredibly smartly dressed. I wonder at the clothing. It must come from somewhere very posh. Sometimes, I can answer a question and Peter is encouraging.
Let’s get back to that egg. This is usually served up on a Tuesday morning, when I insist on hearing William Hague on Times Radio. William sometimes talks about sheep and the bit of Wales that he lives in. I love to hear about what’s going on in my second country. Peter is enormously jealous of William, but he tries not to show it. The eggs are well on their way when I arrive. They are, of course, perfect in every way. They are arranged on Peter’s favourite china in little chicken egg cups. They are timed to perfection on Peter’s mobile phone. The marmalade is his own make from a recipe in a book from Ben’s farm shop. If we run out of marmalade, we have Ben’s. I am not mentioning the actual egg as this is impeccably sourced and I can’t tell you where it comes from. Next, we have more coffee, which is a must for my sanity, and we discuss this week’s egg.
Job done. No divorce over eggs this week!
Peter is not the only person who has cooked an egg for me. I am, apparently, that sort of pale, sickly person ( Peter has checked that I have taken all my drugs this morning ) that you cook a lightly done egg for. Various relatives including Josie have tried. Wes has not tried. He considers a lightly boiled egg to be poisonous. The only other person to cook exactly the same type of egg was my Welsh grandmother. Now, here you are dealing with a mistress of egg technology, who knew the subject for whom she was cooking, literally from birth. My grandmother was unbelievably old even when I was born.
As a very small baby, I would be transported to Wales by my parents, who were hoping something could be done with this wheezy, noisy difficult child. They were right to do so. My grandmother had given birth to at least ten children. She would allow me into the hallowed ground of her bedroom. She had her own fireplace with a heavily polished brass fire guard. Her son worked down a mine. He fireplace was never empty. She would stand on the door step checking the count of bags of coal while she chatted away to the coal man
The years passed and I made it to a College of Further Education. I spent most summers in Wales. My health was better here. I could get a bus to the seaside. My Grandmother was in her late eighties by then. Mornings were spent helping an aunt with tasks, but afternoons were spent in the small lounge with my grandmother. She would read her newspaper with a large magnifying glass. I would read a Thomas Hardy novel. After a while, my grandmother would stand up quietly. I was never asked if I would like a boiled egg. An assumption was made as she disappeared into the kitchen and that hard cold floor with her black ankle boots on. An egg would appear from the kitchen after an interval. Of course, it would be as perfect as one of Peter’s eggs. It would be arranged in exactly the same way, but it would be in a tiny egg cup with a dainty little spoon and a tiny pinch of salt. Next, the wooden breadboard would appear and a sharp bread knife, sharpened on the doorstep by my aunt. The bread was a healthy bread. It was brown and full of taste. I was to place the bread on the bread board and under instruction, I was to butter it and cut it as thin as thin and then we would enjoy our eggs together, just the two of us, like Peter and I, and we talked about the success of the egg in exactly the same way. It’s an art. I can’t do it. I always forget a step. Cooking eggs is an art. It’s like painting the Mona Lisa. Not many people can do it. I have been lucky in the caring people that I have known. It’s the small things that count when somebody loves you.
Words by Sue
Pictures by Peter.
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