Julia Child offered to teach me to poach an egg. And I declined. I had my reasons; I was in labor. But I regret the opportunity missed.
I know how it’s supposed to work: the steaming water, the splash of vinegar, the swirling vortex. Nonetheless, I end up with something that looks like a supernova, surrounded by nebulae. A mess.
I daydream of smoked salmon Benedict smothered in hollandaise and achieve a nightmare of egg strands.
So this year, I decided to try something different: Learn. I opened a big reference book and peered at it anxiously while my teens rolled their eyes. They sighed: Try YouTube.
Never miss a local story.
There I found a new technique, involving a fine mesh strainer. Which worked. The strainer drains off pre-straggle. And it makes egg handling easy.
That’s the thing about motherhood: It’s always an education.