I am home from France now, boiling water for soft boiled eggs the way my French friend Cécile does. She has a few hens that live in the garden across the lane from her house. Most days we would eat fresh eggs with a meal, boiled for just three minutes and served in an egg cup with a pinch of sea salt. Cécile calls the texture moelleux. Soft. I rarely eat eggs like this, very soft and straight from the shell. I knew grandparents who ate them like this - delicate yet practical.
I am three, living in a little grey house on a cul-de-sac in a neighbourhood called Sunshine Gardens. I have an older sister named Sally. Sally and I love our next door neighbours, Mary and Mac. They have their own grandchildren, but we know we also belong to them. Sally and I visit everyday, all by ourselves. It’s our favourite place to go. Mac is sitting at their breakfast table. Mary serves him a soft boiled egg in an egg cup. Mac slices off the top of the egg with a knife. He lets me eat the cooked white nestled in the top of the egg shell.
A few days into my time in France I met my friend Cécile at a restaurant for lunch. I arrived a little early, and it was raining, so I waited beside two elderly women eating lunch under the restaurant awning. As I stood watching the rain, one of the women asked me where I had bought my wide- legged denim trousers1. It’s important to understand that my French is coming along, slowly. I cannot understand a conversation between two French people who are talking quickly. I am lost when watching French TV without subtitles. But I can crush a conversation about food or clothes with strangers on the street. I thanked the Madame and we discussed trouser fashion. I patted her dog, we chatted some more, then she sipped her wine. The grandmothers, it was clear, liked my style.
Later that week I visited the Provençal town of Lourmarin, famous for its Château (and, among other things, its former resident the writer Peter Mayle). Inside the Château is a wide 93-step double spiral stone staircase2. Each step consists of a slab of stone that incorporates the central double spiral columns and also fits into the outside wall. It’s a unique feature in the South of France, so I took a picture for my younger sister, an architect, then I sauntered into the town. My view was limited; the lenses of my old sunglasses were scratched. So I bought myself a new pair in town after trying on almost every pair in the store. When I got home I looked up the brand online and learned the style and colour of my new glasses were called Granny Chic.
To make a soft boiled egg, lower a room temperature egg into boiling water. Set the timer for 3 minutes. When it dings, lift the egg from the water with a slotted spoon and place into an egg cup. Slice off the top of the egg and season the inside with sea salt and cracked black pepper. Eat with a small spoon, and perhaps thin strips of buttered toast or steamed asparagus for dipping.
Those trousers make a cameo in this reel -
The stairs -
I loved eggs like this as a child. We too would have thin strips of toast for dipping, a square slice of bread toasted then cut in thirds. In Australia they’re known as egg soldiers 🙂
Boiled eggs are the best ! My favourite market farmers are the MacDougal Meadows folks who sell duck eggs every Saturday and I have one, boiled, almost every morning. I love these stories from France and admire your ambition to speak French Lindsay. I've been trying hard to learn Italian last few years