Failing to crack the fry-up routine

On Friday I had a day away from the labours of this mighty organ and its wee sister, the Selkirk Weekend Advertiser with which we share a stable.

I enjoyed a welcome long-lie and listened with some guilt to the hum and buzz of grasscutters and hover mowers – I think they were for real, but maybe I was in dream mode.

Arising mid-morning, I treated myself to a fry-up. Three rashers of smoked bacon, two pork sausages, fried tomato, mushrooms and two tattie scones of the triangle version which I intended to top with a single, runny, fried egg.

For me fried eggs have to be runny. I discard the white (destined for my new shiny brown food-waste bucket just delivered by the cooncil) and go with the flow of the bright yellow yoke.

But on Friday I was to be punished for slumbering too long under the duvet. My egg refused to do my bidding. My heart sank as soon as I cracked its brown shell and watched my beloved and yearned-for yoke break free and meander amongst the mushrooms.

Oh, how I cursed that egg and myself for being too heavy-handed when cracking it against the edge of my sturdy frying pan.

But there was no alternative. It was cast aside and I mentally counted the cost to my pocket while reaching for the last of my half-dozen.

By now – because the egg must be the last item added to the culinary delight of a fry-up – the sausages were moving from a lovely light-brown to a darker shade that might soon become a light shade of black. And the bacon was beginning to take on a crispy look that makes it difficult to enjoy in a piece. The skin on my tom was no longer bright red and my triangular tattie scones were beginning to look decidedly well done. And of course my mushrooms were coated in solid egg yoke.

Yes, I know I should have removed my breakfast ingredients and popped them in a warm oven or under the grill. But I am miserly with my gas.

I hasten to add that a fried breakfast is rare treat for me – it is not something in which I daily, or even weekly, indulge. So when I decide to indulge, it is a time to savour. But this one was running away from me, literally.

I made room in the pan for my last egg. I cracked it and popped it into the pan. Yes, you know what happened. Horror of horrors. It happened again. The yoke spilled out and my breakfast was ruined.

Next time I think my eggs will be scrambled. I can’t take the trauma.