Sometimes I Feel Like an Oeuf

I have a euphemism for the kind of cooking I do at home—I call it rustic cuisine. My intentions are highfalutin, that’s for certain, but my execution is anything but. With two kids running around, a job to keep, and my various other responsibilities and ambitions, life just keeps cutting into the time I have in the kitchen (or is it the other way around–does my time in the kitchen distract me from those other important things?).

I find that I don’t necessarily cook things the way I imagine they should be. From accounts of high-end restaurant kitchen practices, for example, I’ve derived a Platonic image of how best to dice a carrot. But the way I cut them up, I’d be lucky to stay employed in a roadside dinner.

I don’t really mind the imperfections in what I cook. They are so marginal that they never really matter. My food is delicious and I know it, from my own experience and from seeing the rivulets of pleasure ripple across the face of my wife, children, and friends while they eat it.

All my life, I’ve had a fast metabolism that’s kept me skinny and perpetually hungry. Since I was a teenager, I’ve eaten like a ravenous wolf on speed. To be satisfied, I used to just eat, eat, eat, and eat some more. I’m no longer a teenager, though, and I’m no longer so sure that I need to eat constantly.

I’m often not sure what to do. Tonight was one of those nights. It’s a family ritual of ours to go out for pizza on Friday nights. We go to the local place where we can get a pie for fifteen dollars. The kids love it. We love it. But it doesn’t really give me enough to eat. Or does it? It’s nine pm now and I can’t tell if I need to eat more, or not.

I decide that I do want to have more food, but I’m perplexed. I don’t want a whole meal, but I want something, mostly protein. I settle on some hard-boiled eggs. They are the perfect food, a no-nonsense shot of mighty protein. All business. There’s a reason they are often served on bars in France. What better fuel for drinking?

When I make them, I follow the seat of my pants. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Sure, I’ve cooked them dozens of times in my life, but how long are they really supposed to cook for?

I look in Bittman’s “How To Cook Everything.” He suggests poking a hole in the shell and gently lowering them on a slotted spoon into boiling water. It sounds like far too much work.

I opt for my traditional method. I start them in cold water; bring them to a boil; go off and do something else (such as this blog post) while they knock about in the pan; wait for a while and wonder how long I should leave them cooking (in this case, until my wife says, “how long are you going to let them boil?”); then drain and leave them to cool a bit (and finish whatever else I was doing), until my wife says “are you going to eat those eggs?” Then I ask her to peel them for me and I enjoy them to no end. It is the height of rustic cuisine.