Jonny McCambridge: Some thoughts on boiled eggs – Big Endians and the disappearing cups

Whether on the side of an Ulster fry, atop a corned-beef hash, chopped as a sandwich filler or as a vital ingredient in baking, I am never without at least a couple of cartons in my kitchen.

While I have much admiration for fried, scrambled and poached eggs, or even an omelette, my personal preference is for the boiled variety.

I know this to be the less fashionable option and rarely offered on breakfast menus.

Once I was staying in a fancy hotel which marketed itself heavily on its dining excellence. At breakfast the young waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs.

"Boiled,” I responded brightly.

She looked momentarily nonplussed, before adding: “I’ll have to check if the chefs can do that.”

“If they can’t boil an egg,” I remarked astutely, “we’re all in trouble.”

Lest anyone should protest that this is not a subject of suitable gravity on which an author of my (ahem) undoubted renown should expend his energies and talent, I should point out I am not the first to become exercised about boiled eggs.

Jonathan Swift, in Gulliver’s Travels, created two tiny civilisations which went to war over which end of their egg should be cracked open at breakfast.

In fairness to the great humourist, he was using the inane dispute over boiled eggs to satirise the long series of wars in his time between Catholic France and Protestant England, whereas I am using boiled eggs to satirise, uh…boiled eggs.

However, during my research (ha!) for writing this column I found that the argument between Big-Endians and Little-Endians remains vexed for many.

A surprising amount of debate exists online on the subject, as it does on differing opinions over the correct methodology for boiling an egg.

During one particularly animated online forum discussion, I found the following contribution.

"They should have the pointier end facing up. I’m right, aren’t I? My husband just plonks them in the egg-cup in any old way and says it doesn’t matter. Can I kill him?”

When I became an adult (if that is indeed what I am to be considered), there were certain measures of independence and sure signals of the acceptance of responsibility.

I bought a car, secured a mortgage, got married and had a child.

Added prominently to this list should be that around 20 years ago, I bought my own set of four white porcelain egg-cups.

Like all of these other milestones – owning a car and a home, being a husband and a daddy – I was strongly of the mind that I would need to do this only once.

Once I had bought egg-cups I considered the matter to be settled; I did not intend or expect to have to revisit it.

I confidently anticipated the little round vessels would be more durable and long-lasting than me, indeed perhaps they would even become treasured keepsakes that could be passed on to future generations.

Gaily, I went through the years boiling my eggs contentedly in the sure knowledge that I had the complete set of cups.

Life was good. I rejoiced in perfecting the timing to ensure that the yolk was just at the point between soft and set.

Then, about 10 years ago, I lost an egg-cup. I cannot say for sure how. I am not aware that it was ever broken, merely that one day there were only three egg-cups in the cupboard.

I felt that a little bit of me had died but bravely moved on.

About five years ago, the three egg-cups became two. Again, I can offer no explanation as to the fate of the diminutive item of crockery, perhaps it is to be found the same place that is occupied by odd socks.

Being reduced to having only two egg-cups meant I suddenly had to adapt to living my life on the edge. It was just about manageable.

When I boil eggs for myself I usually have two (the option of going wild and having three had been cruelly removed), my wife likes her boiled eggs peeled and in a mug with a small pat of butter and some salt, while my son rejects all egg-based food on the grounds that it isn’t chocolate or crisps and therefore not worthy of his attention.

Recently, I have been scrambling a lot of eggs after purchasing a new non-stick pan which is a perfect size and weight for the task.

However, the old loves are often the most durable and, last weekend, there was nothing to be done but I had to have my eggs boiled.

I filled the pot with water and inserted the eggs. I opened the cupboard door and went to the familiar spot.

There was only one egg-cup. I pushed down a pulse of panic which had risen from my stomach and moved a few mugs and glasses around. The missing egg-cup was not to be found.

I marched to the bottom of the stairs and bellowed upwards.

"What have you two done with my egg-cup?”

There was silence at first before I heard my wife and son in conversation. I know what they said because I am not as deaf as I pretend to be in the domestic setting.

This little bit of long-practised subterfuge means I can overhear multiple conversations that they believe me to be excluded from, potentially giving me good warning if they ever decide to put me in a home.

The conversation progressed in this way.

Mummy: “What’s daddy saying?”

Son: “I don’t know, it sounded like he said something about eggs.”

Mummy: “Oh God, I hope he hasn’t lost another egg-cup. We’ll never hear the bloody end of it.”