The Perfect Half-Boiled Egg

 

For all my growing-up years, breakfast meant the same three things: bread, eggs, and milk. It was non-negotiable. An egg each morning was a ritual my father followed unfailingly, and continues to follow even now, nearing ninety.

I, however, never shared his enthusiasm. Poached eggs were far too gooey. Omelettes were worse, filled with offensively large chunks of onion. My mother, determined to get some protein into me, settled on the only remaining option: the boiled egg. I ate it with deep reluctance, so much so that if she was distracted, I would quietly slip it into the dustbin.

Years later, after raising two children and a husband (who comes from an egg-loving family) I have made my peace with eggs. Not entirely, but enough. Poached eggs remain a firm no. But scrambled eggs, cooked my way, vegetables chopped into near invisibility, fried until crisp, with a dash of soy, are something I genuinely enjoy. Omelettes are acceptable too, provided nothing inside them announces its presence. And boiled eggs? They are my fallback when I don’t feel like cooking.

My father, on the other hand, comes from a generation where men stayed out of the kitchen. Their culinary authority came not from experience, but from comparison, “My mother made it best.” But he always liked to think of himself as different. Naturally talkative, he gathered recipes and techniques from anyone willing to share, storing them carefully and building elaborate theories around them.

Over the years, he has explained to us (often in great detail) how easy it is to make rasgullas, how simple it is to make cottage cheese, how perfectly one can prepare sugar syrup. During his time in Malaysia, living with housemates after retirement, he even claimed to have made parathas from scratch. His repertoire is vast: roast chicken, baingan bharta, fish roasted over a campfire you’ve caught yourself. As children, we believed him unquestioningly. As adults, we began to understand that his knowledge is impeccable, but entirely theoretical. I realized that he is a theoretical physicist! The ingredients are right but following the method is dicey.

These days, life has slowed him down. A fractured leg, age, fading hearing; all have made him dependent in ways he never was before. He lives with my sister, who ensures he gets enough protein through the day. The highlight of his evening is still his egg.

But not just any egg.

For years, his breakfast egg was fried just so, the white crisp, the yolk soft and gelatinous. Hard-boiled eggs, therefore, are unacceptable. What he wants is a perfectly half-boiled egg.

Since he can no longer make it himself, he instructs the cook.

“The water must be boiling before you put the egg in.”

She nods, already thinking about how much milk she can spare for her tea.

“Boil it for exactly seven minutes.”

Another nod. Whether she owns a watch is doubtful, though she does have a mobile phone.

“Then take it out, put it in cold water, peel it, and bring it with salt and pepper.”

By now, she has left the room.

In the kitchen, she fills a pan with water, drops the egg in before it even warms up, and lets it boil for as long as it takes her to prepare her tea. The result is inevitable: a hard, grey, overcooked egg.

My father is disappointed. The yolk is no longer soft, it is solid, lifeless. He repeats his instructions the next day, and the day after that. Sometimes the cook changes, and the process begins again. But so far, the perfect half-boiled egg has remained elusive.

It must be frustrating that the person you are instructing lets all the sound bytes slip in and out of her ears without retaining even a miniscule amount of it. But the as we grow older and infirm we do get dependent on someone for something. It is less frustrating if we were to accept the imperfect world and its imperfect activities rather than whipping ourselves to try and reach a perfect destination

Perhaps the perfect egg is no longer the point.

Perhaps, in the end, it is about accepting the imperfect ones—the overboiled, unyielding eggs of an imperfect world—and learning, gently, to live with them.

 

 

 

Age No Bar

 

My Estrogen levels are falling at the same rate as the petrol price is rising! So as the vehicles get leaner and meaner, I am getting comfortably plumper and irritable.

While growing up, anything connected with the reproductive cycle was not discussed. Even mothers did not encourage this topic to be put up on the podium. Don’t worry I am not going to either ( I belong to the older generation, as you might have guessed). The only reason why I am mentioning the unmentionable is the consequences of this titillating hormone!

All my old readers know that whatever my age might be, I always feel that I am twenty one! Though I forget, my body refuses to! It creaks and aches (most of the time I ignore it), sometimes I even moan unconsciously.

It so happens that I have these unnatural urges to go on a cleaning spree. I have no set rules for this. Sometimes I do Spring cleaning in Autumn, otherwise when the world is happy enough to snuggle under blankets, I love to sweat it out! (You guessed right, using my elbow grease). When I am not physically so occupied, my mind is busily whirring about the house searching for nooks and corners that might need me. If all else fails, I go round shifting furniture!

“So what,” you might say, “that’s no big deal!”

I can imagine the bored look on your face.

Well, these urges have a tendency to overwhelm me when I am alone. When the lord and master is on his trips, my cupboards are cleaned; the kitchen is scrubbed; all old papers are sorted through; the fans are cleaned; windows are scrubbed…. the list is endless. Notwithstanding its not a surprise that all my maids hate it when L&M goes on his trips, as half the scrubbing has to be done by them.

As I grow older these escapades are not limited to me being alone. Post COVID, with WFH becoming the norm, the trips have reduced, and my addiction has increased. When L&M is bound to the study this “mouse” has to play. In the beginning I got away with it, but after a couple of falls and strained backs, the L&M keeps an eagle eye on me (As advised by the Doc and other new adult in the family). In fact certain paparazzi has taken secret videos when I am indulging and the next couple of days are rather uncomfortable for me! (the mind not so much the body).

I am sure you will sympathize with me when I tell you that once I used to climb the high ladders, clean the fans, and light fittings with the maid being my helper, now I am demoted to the post of a helper. The Mighty Maid stands regally upon the said ladder like a surgeon at the operating table.

“Soap,” the maid asks, followed by, “Wet cloth” then, “Dry cloth.” Then I, like the Nurse, meekly hand over the things, looking up at royalty.

Once upon a time, I did not wait for anyone to do my mind’s bidding. Now I have to wait for a suitable day before I can take the itch of cleaning away from my soul. Added to this, I cannot climb on high stools, lift up heavy stuff or take off the cobwebs without being upbraided!

Just the other day, L&M went off on his trip. My maid had left for the day. I was not able to sleep. The big loft in the kitchen balcony (It had become a dumping ground for all unwanted stuff) beckoned! The Cat was away, who would stop me? I took the stool (I was careful) took out everything and cleaned up the whole area. Oh! What pleasure; what salve for my soul and the most important thing ‘peace’ that filled my very being. Sorting, cleaning, throwing, and arranging, I lost track of time. I was so proud of myself.

“I did it!” I congratulated myself.

The melodious tune of my phone woke me from my reverie, and I rushed to get it. That was the precise time when my back was wrenched, and I haven’t heard the last of it from the three voices whose religion is to catch me on the wrong foot!

“When will you learn?” , same words but different voices.

I think its all my mind’s fault who refuses to grow up!