Once, whilst traipsing around the wilds of Pennsylvania, the Celt, in one of those moments that make even partners of thirty-odd years mildly breathless with wonder, announced that the silicone egg poaching cups he'd just found were what he'd been searching for for ever. Given we haven't been inside a kitchen store for years, and eat between us no more than a half-a-dozen eggs a year and, if there were poaching to be done, I would be the one
The tedium of standing over a pan of quivering water pretending that one even needs to produce an aesthetic egg has meant, as you might imagine, that the poaching cups, loll, unused, in a drawer with all the other must-haves no longer loved. Actually, my problem with them is that I can taste the silicone on the egg and so they are ostracized, much as are the eggs they're designed to hold.
This weekend we are in Manhattan to see Gilbert and Sullivan's, and the Celt's beloved, Patience at Symphony Space, and to visit with family and friends. Breakfast, rarely eaten in hotel dining rooms, for neither of us, will be an egg.