There’s No Such Thing As Poached Eggs:
This is a poem.
I have heard rumours
Of eggs cooked in water,
Cracked in when it’s starting to pop.
And I’ve even tasted
The results of this labour,
Thick ham underneath, hollandaise on top,
And though on this matter
My memory’s clear –
A few twists of pepper, yolk burst with a spear –
I assume that it all was just smoke and mirrors
For my attempts just don’t measure up.
Some say I should use a vortex,
And that vinegar helps albumen set.
Some say that all that’s too complex,
And it’s just about the freshest of eggs.
Some use specific devices,
And I have done too! In a crisis!
And though the results are not boiled or scrambled or
Fried it’s a world away from what I’d expect.
A poached egg should be soft in the centre
with a small cavity where golden yolk’s hidden,
it shouldn’t be soggy
or teeming with ribbons
like the unfinished hem of a dress.
It should burst with a thumb’s worth of pressure,
It should hold the whole plate together,
It should feel like your eating is nothing but pleasure –
A sin much too good to confess.
I have long since given up trying,
And on this I think we’re agreed,
Because where is the value in lying
About all these methods that cannot succeed!
Let’s all just outsource our breakfasts!
Spend long hours away from the oncoming rain
And eat eggs benedict, safe in the knowledge
That mysteries, some things should remain.