Thanks to eBay, I found some Portmeirion ‘Botanic Garden’ egg cups.
Now I can have a proper soft-boiled egg.
(Yes, I am easily amused during the dog days of summer. Anything that allows me to remain in air-conditioned comfort is a boon.)
Paired with homemade toasted flaxseed bread, a salt sprinkled soft egg is a magical thing, perched between solid and liquid and somehow tasting so much better than hardboiled.
Eggs are such a miracle. I’ve been meaning to buy proper egg cups fro an eternity.
In the 1980s I visited a family my father had met in England during WW II. They lived in a house that had also served as a pub during the war, about 40 miles north of London. I made their home my headquarters and I would take the train from there to various other points of interest around the country. I returned from one trip to tell my hostess about my confusion when I encountered an egg in an egg cup at a B&B where I had spent the night. I had thumped the egg with my knife and the egg more or less exploded and ran down the side of the egg cup, leaving me with very little breakfast.
She responded that the proper way to approach the situation would be to place the egg in the cup, then gently tap the top with a spoon and carefully peel away some shell, revealing the soft interior. Then I should insert a bit of butter, salt and pepper and then convey a spoonful to my mouth, exclaiming, “oh, what a lovely egg!”
I shall declaim “oh, what a lovely egg” the very next time I enjoy one!
I posted that story from work — don’t know why it logged me in as Koshka. It means “cat” in Russian, and was the name of the first cat I acquired after moving into my first apartment.