The Fried Egg Olympics

Oh. I forgot to mention, I can’t cook.  Part of this journey to becoming a full-time homemaker is learning to cook.  My husband says I’m too hard on myself, that I’m actually a good cook, just out of practice.  I’ll put his politeness to the test in the coming weeks, as I begin to take on more of the cooking duties in our house [currently shared but to balance out my commute and bottle-making/washing, largely undertaken by the hubs, thanks hubs!]

My litmus test slash mortal nemesis is the fried egg.  Until a year or so ago, I didn’t even eat eggs cooked any way but scrambled and heaped with cheese, or boiled, reluctantly and none at all if I wasn’t on some low-carb nut-job diet.  Now, thanks to my husband, without whom my kids and I would surely have starved to death by now, I enjoy eggs over easy and soft boiled almost more than any other way. But cooking them in these new ways is another story entirely.   With cooking, as in life, my challenge is patience.  That, and a fear of inadvertently poisoning my family to within an inch of their life by under-cooking chicken. That said, I also have the convenient ability to get the knack of most things I set my mind to. 

Eggs over easy. Not my worst showing, but at least one broken yolk and certainly not the prettiest-looking fried eggs.
So I’m training.  How timely, the Olympics are about to start.  I’m not going for gold, but rather setting my sights on an achievable silver, which in the world of competitive cooking equates roughly to the ability to cook chicken more tender than shoe leather, fry a decent over-easy egg with runny, not deadly, yolk, and get my kids to eat vegetables without their knowledge.  
Stay tuned for more Fried Egg Diaries! 10 weeks to go!

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