some enchanted evening the cook wants food, though without getting the car out, or worse, arriving at fancy conceptions for dinner, when hunger is the sole reason to be in the kitchen. there are sandwiches, and yesterday's soup, though making a sandwich is too complex and yesterday just doesn't do the trick. hence the omelet.
three eggs, a lump of butter, a pan and before you can say jack daniel's you have food on your plate. these are the basics. and like everything else some folk make complications show up. like, they say the eggs must be room temperature, the butter hot, browning to hazelnut, they tell you to tilt the pan just so and to do the fandango while your eggs coagulate. i say the hell with it. you're hungry and pronouncing coagulate is far from your tongue. there are those, god forbid, using oil and butter, others having their butter nicely blackened. never mind nicely, just put a pan on the fire, lump the butter and crack three eggs for a good fork in a bowl. lower the flame, swirl the fat as it gently begins to bubble, and right then turn in your eggs. let the mess settle a few seconds, give it a shake and a flick of the wrist, have courage, make the edges flop over the center. do this again, looping the cooked side up, then turn off the heat. allow your omelet to set, to repose and to calm, some salt, if you like, then with the pan's handle cocked straight up slide your creation onto a ready plate. a glass of wine, or better still, the above amber liquid. it's the end of the day after all, sit back, feet up, never mind midday's bank reconciliation, eat and if by chance you like bach, listen to gould's early goldbergs.