Today marks a life achievement – I made a perfect omelette.
By perfect, I mean an omelette that does not stick to the pan.
I am not much of a cook. My husband and I tend to think of food more as fuel than a gastronomical experience because we are always absorbed in the doing of other things. During special occasions, my husband can generally rouse himself out of the daily grub routine and produce spectacular pizza and chiles rellenos, among other delights, but I usually stick with what I know, which is spaghetti. I do enjoy watching old cooking shows: Julia Child, Two Fat Ladies, (anyone remember the Galloping Gourmet?), plus cake decorating shows, but it is a lazy, anthropological interest, not usually one that will drive me in from the garden or away from the computer to actually cook something excitingly new.
Also, I come from a long line of women who scraped the pan out after cooking eggs, and I suppose I felt I did not deserve to be different. But this morning, I stood up straighter in front of the stove, I shook my head, and after pouring the beaten eggs into the melted butter, grabbed the skillet with one firm hand and spatula in the other, and kept the pan moving over the fire, loosening the edges of the beautifully coagulating mixture and encouraging the runny part to move underneath with the spatula, just like I’d seen a thousand times on cooking shows and at buffet brunches, and – SUCCESS!