Beating an egg

I bought a new gadget recently to remove the top from a boiled egg. The packaging urged me to believe that at last, I could say goodbye forever to those ragged-edged, egg fracture blues. How I made it this far in life without owning such a device, or even knowing about it, is a mystery.

Late on Sunday morning, still smarting from the previous day’s IKEA 5K, I limped into the kitchen, keen to give this new lifestyle aid a rigorous workout. Two eggs were removed from the fridge and placed on the worktop, where their temperature would rise to a level at which they wouldn’t crack in a pan of boiling water. As I gazed at them, I wondered what this temperature might be, and more crucially, how I would know when it was reached.

You can’t beat an egg. A few years ago, we, the world, entered a dark period, when eggs were denounced, McCarthy-style, as the food of the devil. The salmonella scare meant we were sure to die if we even looked at one, and even if, by some miracle, we survived long enough to eat one of these time bombs, our fate was sealed by the cholesterol and toxic fats within, deemed to be a one-way ticket to the cardiac ward.

But hang on. A bit later, the same experts must have noticed a decimal point stuck to the sole of someone’s shoe. Once restored to its rightful place on the back of the fag packet they’d used for the original calculations, eggs were reclassified as an ambrosia of unparalleled nutritional splendour. If we didn’t devour them at every opportunity we would have only ourselves to blame for missing out on the Queen’s telegram.

I buy mine from one of the farms I pass on the way home from work. I remember writing about my commute previously, when I first arrived, and was travelling to work by train. I had a fair old gush about the place then, and I feel no different now, though I haven’t quite solved the problem of how to sound delighted with my environment without sounding delighted with myself. In that previous post, I see that I referred to another, fondly remembered daily work journey, from Huddersfield to South Manchester. The section through rural West Yorkshire — Honley, Holmfirth, Holme Moss — found fleeting fame recently on Day 2 of the Tour de France. What a journey to work that was, with the road snaking onwards through the northern Peak District, through Glossop and into Cheshire. For an inveterate townie, the chance to stop off at a lofty lay-by en route to the office, and gaze down across some of the greatest open countryside in England, very nearly made that ghastly job worthwhile. The old cliché about it being better to travel than to arrive, was never more true.

The current Swiss commute is much shorter, just 15 minutes or so, regardless of whether I take the motorway or the back route. Both have occasional delays but the rustic option, where I’m forced to tarry only if I get stuck behind a tractor or a farmer driving some cows up the lane, is a more creative environment in which to come up with an excuse for being late. But enforced dawdling is rare. It’s mostly a pleasant agricultural meander past the chalet-shaped wooden farmhouses and old barns filled with logs for the winter and trekking tracks marked with their inviting, yellow Wanderweg signposts.

Attached to the gates of most farms are boards to advertise newly harvested seasonal grub. We’ve been through the inexplicably frenetic Spargel season (asparagus) and are now deep into the berry period. Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries and cherries are everywhere. Summer muesli is never complete without a big mixed handful of these local fruits.

The place I usually stop at has clucking hens strutting round the door of the little shop, reassuring me that the eggs will be fresh. The Swiss are not welded to the idea of counting in dozens and half dozens. As in the supermarkets, the two containers on offer here are 10s and 4s. I fill a 10 with the largest eggs I can find on the stack – preferably brown and sort of heavy. While I’m there I’ll see what else is on offer. Currently berries, a few varieties of lettuce, apples and pears, spring onions, carrots and spuds. Occasionally kale and chard and broccoli. Tomatoes and mushrooms appeared last week. In the fridge, milk and yogurt from the farm and smoked bacon from a neighbour.  I weigh my produce, listing it on a paper slip which goes into the honesty box along with my money.

Back at the ranch – the metaphorical one — I’m still staring at my eggs, wondering how much crackability remains in them. The problem threatens to dominate my thinking for some time, so I decide on a new plan. My boiled egg gadget would have to wait for its 15 minutes of fame. Instead, I’ll go for an omelette.

As I root around for the mushrooms, I notice some mysterious foliage poking through the salad drawer. What’s this? Ah yes, the remainder of the Swiss chard I picked up the other day. I used to neglect this vegetable back home, but here I eat it quite a lot, probably because it has the word Swiss in its name. Interestingly though, while we call it Swiss chard in the UK the Swiss call it Krautstiel and the Germans Mangold.

Krautstiel is two meals in one, like fish and chips. The rich, dark green leaf can be wilted like spinach for stir fries and side dishes while the rigid white stems are chopped up and roasted or fried in oil. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll have a mushroom and Swiss chard stem omelette. The three big stalks are diced and tossed into the pan with a little oil and seasoning and, dammit, a big red onion I just stumbled over. It will take a while for these to soften enough for my omelette so what the heck – I may as well add some thinly sliced carrot, put the lid on the pan and sit on the balcony with my coffee and iPad.

Time passes. It’s only when I decide on a second cup of coffee that I remember the pan. Nothing much to worry about, except that the contents are becoming a bit dry, so I chop up a stray red pepper and throw it in along with a couple of tiny, vicious red chillies. To add a little edge I splash in some red wine vinegar and turn the heat up to burn it off. It’s now getting sort of porridge-like, which wasn’t the idea at all. But who cares? Soon it will all be concealed inside an omelette and no one need ever know. To make it a bit more glutinous we’ll add a generous squirt of tomato puree. And where are those mushrooms? Phew. Nearly forgot them. In they go, along with the chard leaves to give it some texture and a tomato or two for colour.

I drink my second coffee and consider my options. Fusilli or spaghetti? Fusilli, I think. Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in the kitchen, ladling my unctuous veggie-napolitana sauce over the Fusilli and grating some Parmesan over it.

Half an hour later, as I’m clearing the debris from the worktop, still transmitting compliments to my inner chef for such a splendid meal, I move the empty pasta packet and spot two eggs sitting there, looking all expectant. Ah yes. Ooops.

The boiled egg that became a big bowl of pasta and sauce.

And this is what my life is like, every bloody day.

Every. Bloody. Day.