After making mum French toast on Mothers’ Day, I thought it would be nice to make dad his favourite, Eggs Benedict, on his corresponding day of parental appreciation. But then last week, after three months in the diary, my own parents cancelled on me in favour of friends. Thus it was Eggs Florentine (cheaper, vegetarian) with my Bethnal Green family this morning instead.
I won’t lie, it’s a bloody arse to make. Everything needs to be done at the last minute and everything needs a pan of simmering water and everything is only ever a few seconds from going irreparably wrong. For an already-anxious person and cook, it’s not in the least bit fun. But somehow, it all worked. Thanks to posh housemate P for taking over on the egg-poaching front and happy housemate R and saintly-patient M for their toast-buttering and tea-making services. The hollandaise was great, and while I wish I could offer some insight into why it didn’t curdle or scramble or split, I just don’t know.
It’s just occurred to me that this blog makes my life seem like one long brunch of eggs.