Monday, November 26, 2012.
The Roofers Get To Work. I Make A Big Fat Omelette.
Mary Ann spent the morning going from lumberyard to hardware store to contractor supplier, pulling out American Express to pay for all the materials as the roofers placed their orders.
Before these guys showed up with their amazing proposal, we had been talking about a post-Christmas vacation like the one we spent a bundle on last year, at the same place: The Homestead, in the mountains of western Virginia. The Marys and Jude have now been there and loved it twice. That makes it officially a tradition.
This year, it would be likely that our progeny will bring along their significant others. ML's boyfriend's family lives in Maryland--an easy day's drive away from The Homestead. Jude's lady is footloose and interested in the idea. The only problem is me. I like the place okay, but I'm a fiscal conservative at the level of family finances, and the prospect of coming up with the dough for both a new roof and an expensive vacation in the peak-rate season keeps me awake nights.
The radio show was surprisingly busy. Only one bad report: a table of four had problems at Broussard's. The host said that a waitress would not bring more cranberry sauce.
The lively show motivated me to try that omelette supper we never got off the ground yesterday. Omelettes are one of a handful of dishes that I can't seem to cook to my expectations. I am not blessed with manual dexterity, and I've been told by more than a few people going back to my earliest teachers that I'm clumsy. Enough that the way they tell me is to ask whether there's something wrong with me. For example, for someone who has written thousands of words using a keyboard every day since I was nineteen, my typing skills are terrible.
I think making omelettes well--moist but not runny, fluffy, and never scorched--requires a lot of muscle memory. The guys who do it best are the ones who cook hundreds of egg orders every day in diners, hotel breakfast rooms, and casino buffets. The late Chef Gerard Crozier once showed me a snap of the wrist that made his omelettes perfect, but I can't seem to get the hang of it.
For today's attempt, I adopted the Camellia Grill's technique of beating the eggs into a froth in a blender, then pouring them over a hot griddle. It overcooked, but the flavors were good. How could they not be? I had my leftover ham, pepperjack cheese, and green onions to work with.
As she did yesterday, Mary Ann turned down my offer to make an omelette for her. (She probably saw mine, which was not pretty.) However, a seed was planted that would grow into something nice for breakfast tomorrow.
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