On some cooking show or another, I heard a chef complimented because he allows his proteges to really get into life in the kitchen, not like some French chefs who will shove you in a corner to peel potatoes for three years before you can get near the stove. Oddly, though, the thought of sitting in a corner peeling potatoes is appealing to me at the point in my life. I think it’s because with two small children, I am never left alone to go to the bathroom, let alone complete an entire task by myself. This very blog post will likely be completed in five sittings.
However, if I ever do make my way to this mythical French kitchen full of menial tasks, I should be kept far away from the hard boiled eggs. I am truly terrible at peeling them, and I don’t know why. I take out chunks of flesh, I leave little grains of peel stuck to the egg; it’s horrific. Up until a few months ago, this didn’t pose a serious problem, as my obligations in egg-peeling were few. But then, my two-year-old son joined the world of unitasker-lovers, and asks daily to use his egg slicer. The dismembered Humpty-Dumpty above is the far too frequent result. Please give my apologies to the chickens.