Cooking’s a funny one,
isn’t it? I mean, I’ve never been a bad cook or poisoned anyone at a barbeque
but there are just some things that take a little longer to master. Like the
humble omelette. Now, you’re probably reading this thinking that I’m an absolute
numpty if I can’t pull off that simple culinary quest but it’s one of only a
few things that took a lot longer than most.
Lasagne was my first
hero dish and I still have to make it at dinner parties where uni friends will
be there. Haloumi with peaches, cous cous and honey mustard dressing was the
post-uni, post-gym meal that was so quick and tasty that it’s still a staple
today. I even cook roast dinners on occasion, with rather legendary roast
potatoes. But the omelette is another matter.
It might be because I
never really liked them. Mum made a cheese one for me once and I was sick. I
also don’t really like onions or mushrooms, which most seem to include when
you’re out and about. But when my sister – the self-confessed non-cook – made
one for me, I decided it was time to sort it out. So I made my first one last
week with cheese, tomatoes, peppers and spinach. Three eggs to start with so
that I had more leeway when flipping. It kind of worked out but I realised more
oil would have been beneficial. So every morning this week, I’ve been aiming to
make the perfect omelette and, this morning, worked out that actually it’s the
pan. A smaller pan with more oil and less eggs worked perfectly and although a
good workman never blames his tools, the star-patterned IKEA pan just wasn’t
cutting it. So there you have it – the perfect omelette in a smaller pan. Oil,
heated. Eggs, beaten. Whites, fried (until nearly white). Filling, added. Half,
flipped. Count down from 30. Hey presto.
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