Yesterday, I baked a cake with a very dear friend.
We began by separating the eggs. Or rather, she began with separating the eggs. I hate doing that.
My father told me that there was a fancy new method in the Readers Digest. You break the egg on a plate, take a plastic bottle, squeeze it and allow it to suck the yolk. Miraculously, only the yolk is supposed to come away from the white.
It did not work. At least, not with us. The egg went splat (just like the headmaster – if you’ve read the book).
Somehow, she managed to repair the damage, and successfully separated nine eggs.
We managed to get the beater’s wire yellow, dipping it in egg-yolk.
We splattered batter over ourselves and the kitchen platform.
We spooned the batter into a dish that was far too small for it and then painstakingly transferred part of it into another dish. (That was a Very Good idea. My imagination boggles at what would have happened if we had not done that.)
We went half an hour late for a concert that evening.
The cake was simply delicious, among the best I’ve ever made. What else matters?