It’s that time of year again. The bunnies are busy laying eggs and the hens are looking fluffy and cute, and you can see that Spring Magic is working its mischief because my brain seems to have become almost entirely unplugged. Yesterday I turned up for a two o’ clock meeting at 3 pm, and today I forgot to take the fish from the freezer to make the fish pie. I blame it on the novel writing, the fantasy I step into and forget to step out of when I’m supposed to be doing things.
So, with Easter visitors imminent and feeling particularly virtuous (as I have cleaned and tidied and hoovered and mopped the kitchen floor), I decide to prepare the ingredients for the evening feast, for which I am chef extraordinaire. Broccoli, carrots, Dijon mustard, lemon all come piling out of the fridge, the position of the white wine noted, and yes, two eggs to hard boil and chop for the pie. Arms full and, momentarily turning my back from the eggs placed on the work surface, I hear a ceremonious roll not dissimilar to an avalanche (and if you believe that…) followed by a resounding splat as one egg plummets to the floor, followed in quick and irretrievable succession by the second.
The floor is wonderfully clean, but nevertheless these eggs will not now be going into the fish pie, I fear. However I can’t help but laugh heartily. Worse things happen at sea, my dear ol’ Mum always says, and yup, there’s been some awful stuff in the news lately, which makes a silly mistake an irrelevance. And actually quite funny. You could say that I’m now a couple of yolks short. Which, of course, is not a yolk at all.