An Omelette: Behold the Fork

Ridiculous.

I call myself a foodie and I've never perfected the omelette. I have just one thing to say:

Behold, the fork.

I have applied spatulae of various shapes and sizes with tortuous twists and turns of the wrist to pools of whisked eggs in skillets of countless and varied materials. Omelette shame had met me face to face so many times that I simply gave up and have avoided the dish among my breakfast offerings. But today, this glorious morning, I rediscovered the beauty of the fork.

Perhaps the commonness of a kitchen tool deceives us; I have so many forks in my kitchen that they simply cannot be the key to any particular dish. One KitchenAid professional mixer is the key to many a light-textured cake; one potato masher is the answer for soft, fluffy mashed potatoes; one fork simply can't make the difference, I contemplated at 6:00 this morning, rubbing my bleary eyes as I perused the directions for a "plain omelette" in LaRousse's Gastronomique. But I was determined and gathered my muster, fork in one hand, bowl of eggs in the other, and my favorite, simple cast iron skillet before me over medium-high heat, bubbling with a mere two teaspoons of melted butter.

"I really can't believe I'm going to fork these eggs to death and expect a smooth omelette," I mumbled. I went for it, rubbing my eyes with one wrist. Hurriedly pouring the eggs into the skillet I made quick work of whisking them continously with my simple dinner fork. Once about half-set in a curdled, wet disk, I tempted the cohesed eggs to move from the surface of the skillet on the side closest to me. They lifted in such a heavenly, easy fashion I was, frankly, stunned.

Now I love my cast iron skillet for its non-stick properties, but eggs are normally the curmudgeon that defies me, sticking with a crust, ruining my breakfast, leaving me with a mess to scrub, and possibly lifting years of my Grandmother's precious seasoning from the iron. But lift they did without a spot, and I folded the near side of the disk over onto the middle. Pushing the fluffy, folded edge away from me towards the opposite side of the skillet, I gently nudged with my fork until the entire omelette moved up the sides and folded over on itself.

"I'm done. I can't believe I'm done," I thought. Here in my sleepy stupor I had finally mastered a simple omelette. The omelette possessed that delicate fluffy sponginess I'd sought to capture for so long; it was light and delicious, with a hint of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper (I was out of the traditional white). And it was beautiful. Without a hitch, in the blink of an eye, and with only a fork in my hand. No fancy tools, no spatula, nothing but me and the fork. Well, and Grandma's cast iron.

Sadly, I forgot to take a snapshot before I scarfed down my masterpiece. Oh well.

Next, the lovely souffle.....





Share