I love it when my fried eggs turn out right.
I need our kitchen to be empty for me to get into the meditative state needed for this. At times the result it still wabi sabi. Beauty in in imperfection.
#scootytai came early to work today. I
requested her to prep on the other side of the kitchen platform while I worked on the eggs.
Our kitchen is petite and er, she’s not, but we managed to synchronise our movements and both worked uninterrupted. I managed pretty well as the eggs on the plate vouch for.
Our friend Erika, Erika Mummy to our cats, had got us whole pepper from her father’s farm in Goa. I crushed some in the mortar and pestle that I’d lugged back from Chiang Mai. I sprinkled this on the fried eggs. The way they looked reminded me of the deemer poach that my mom and granny would make me in Calcutta. Back then bread gone sour meant it had gone bad. Today I had it with iwalnut and rye sourdough (from Suzette). A good sourdough is, as the name suggests, sour.
The green chutney on the plate is no modern chef’s smear. The dietician in my diabetologist’s clinic, whose guidance is part of the therapy, has asked me to have green chutney everyday. She has asked me to have 1.5 eggs too, which I have not listened to, and bread just once a day, which I have stuck to, Walk for half an hour a day, she said. ‘A pleasure walk. Take your cats.’
You can’t take cats out of course.
This morning I walked my for 50 min after after feedings our boys and fed the #kittyblinders at the end. Indeed a pleasure walk.