Just a quick pop-in to tell you about an egg.

That’s right. An egg.

But not just any egg. This, my friends, is the seven-minute egg.

I’ve heard about boiling eggs so that the yolk is still runny, but it seemed over-the-top. Want a runny egg? Just crack it in a skillet and fry it. Big whoop.

But then I read Molly’s article. As usual, her words were beguiling, her methods seductive. So I made the egg.

Everything proceeded just fine until I peeled it. The egg felt soft—squishy soft—in my hand. Like there was a big puddle of liquid inside, oh dear. Anticipatorially (new word!) anguished, I plopped the for-sure underdone egg into a bowl and hastily sliced it open and—

I froze.

The white was solid.
The yolk was velvety soft, like a thick, creamy sauce.
The egg was perfect.
Perfect!

Elated, I snapped a few pictures and then dug in, dipping my buttered toast into the cheesy yolk and, at the all-too-soon end, raking the crust over the bottom of the bowl to dredge up every last smear of egg.

Seven-Minute Egg
As per Molly Wizenberg’s instructions on Saveur (via this post on Orangette).

Fill a saucepan with enough water to cover an egg and bring it to a boil. Slip the egg, still cold from the fridge, into the bubbling water and set the timer for 7 minutes. (I reduced the heat a tad—just enough to keep the water boiling, but not madly boiling—and kept the saucepan partially covered.) When the timer bings, quickly cool the egg in cold water. Peel the egg and serve immediately. 

Cooked eggs can be chilled and then later reheated for 20 seconds in the microwave. 

Serve the seven-minute egg on toast, roasted veggies, spaghetti carbonara, beans, quesadillas, sauteed greens, polenta, fried potatoes, etc. In other words, anything.

This same time, years previous: our oaf, the visit, a spat, and brandied-bacony roast chicken.

On Tuesday mornings, my mom comes over to help with the kids’ studies. Often she comes bearing a tin of donuts or a box of prunes. “For fortification,” she explains. I make her a cup of coffee or some tea. She sets up shop on the living room sofa, or at the art table, and I send kids to her for different tasks.

This is the only morning of the week—aside from Friday—when all four kids are home, and it feels good to get in several solid hours of higher-quality-than-normal studies. Whereas I normally whip through the studies as fast as possible, my mother draws them out, enhancing the reading lesson with stories of her own, delving into the nitty-gritty of a math concept, or hashing out the theological issues of our national economics. Ever cheerful and upbeat, she’s much better at coaxing and cajoling than I am. (Which is funny because “cheerful” and “upbeat” are not adjectives I would’ve used to describe her when I was a homeschooling child under her ruling thumb.)

For me, it’s a wonderful reprieve to have someone else hold the flash cards and listen to the reading lessons. And it’s a nice break for the kids, too, to have someone else explain the same concepts from a fresh perspective, or at least in a different, less-weary voice.

Most days, Mom stays for lunch. Sometimes she’ll linger into rest time and I’ll make coffee and we’ll visit. Or sometimes, like this week, she’ll take a kid or two home with her for the afternoon.

It’s such a gift, having the parenting support be so concrete. It means the world.

Thanks, Mom.

This same time, years previous: applied mathematics, maple pecan scones, a list, the quotidian (3.26.12), fatira, whoopie pies, smoky fried chickpeas, snickerdoodles, and Happy Birthday, Happy Pappy!      

Over the weekend, my husband and older daughter fixed up a home for the piggies. They carved out a corner of the pasture using chicken fencing and the already-there fencing, and then electrified the whole thing. My husband built a little shelter and stuffed it with hay. They relocated the water barrel and feed container.

And then it came time to move the pigs.

My older daughter got into the pen and snagged the hind legs of one of the pigs. Then my husband pulled her out of the pen while she pulled out the pig.

The pig screamed bloody murder.
The dogs went wild.
My younger daughter stood there, dazed, with her hands over her ears.

I alternated between snapping photos, shooing the dogs, laughing my head off, and yelling at my younger daughter to go pen up the dogs. At one point, my husband got so mad at the dogs that he ran after them, leaving my older daughter to wrangle the furiously-kicking pig all on her own. It screamed directly in her ear, but she managed to keep her wits about her. My husband returned, got a firm grip on the pig’s hind legs and took off running for the new pen.

For pig number two, we got smart and penned the dogs first. With them out of the equation, the process was much less stressful.

For a little while, the pigs huddled quietly in their new house. My husband squatted by the door and patted them apologetically.

Soon enough, the pigs’ curiosity got the better of them and they stepped out of their house and began nosing around their new digs.

Of course, they went straight for the fence…repeatedly. Each time they bumped it, they leaped back with a loud oink. (Yes, it worked!) From the other side, the sheep were sniffing the fence, too—and getting shocked by it. Such entertainment! My younger son could hardly contain himself, so curious was he about what the shock felt like, that I finally just exploded with, Touch it and see! So he did, with his foot. It wasn’t too bad, he said, but I noticed he stopped trying to touch it. 

Hopefully (fingers crossed!) we won’t be embarking on any wild pig chases in the near future.


This same time, years previous: the quotidian (3.24.14), of a moody Sunday, snappy happy, and the winner.