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To fry an egg.

I didn’t realize this until the other day.  I was chatting away on the telephone

when I mused to my friend, “now that I’ve fed the children, what will I have for lunch?” 

She replied, “I think I’ll have a fried egg.”

“That sounds good,” I said. 

“I thought you didn’t like fried eggs.”

“I don’t,”  I admitted. “But it sounds good.  I just don’t like runny yolks.”

She told me she doesn’t make the yolks runny and proceeded to tell me how to do it.

Melt some butter in the skillet.

Crack in an egg.

When the white begins to set, break up the yolk.

Let the edges get all brown and crisp.

And flip.

When it’s all set through and through, slide it off to a plate.  Salt and pepper, and enjoy.

The first one was so good, I had another one on some toast.

No, I haven’t been reduced to teaching you how to fry eggs because I ran out of culinary ideas.

The storal of the mory, I mean the moral of the story, is try new things.  Fried eggs have long been one of those things I hated and feared because I was surprised by a sunny runny-side-up one time.  Sure, it looked good, but not for me.

It seems funny that I am not afraid to attempt some of the most complicated recipes I’ve seen, but the simplist thing had me worried. 

To thank my friend for her inspiration, I taught her a bit of trivia–I have issues, I know–the pleats in a chefs hat represent the all the ways he can prepare an egg.

So I thanked her for adding a pleat to my toque.  (That’s a freebie, a chef’s hat is called a toque.)

Then I sat and ate my fried egg sandwich with a new look on the world.  Something new had found its way into my life and I would never be the same.  (heehee, I think we know where my daughter gets her flair for the dramatic.)

Coincidentally, we had chinese food  that evening and my fortune cookie told me, “You find treasure where others see only the ordinary.”

 Maybe that’s the storal of the mory.  Treasure the ordinary.