Easter eggs

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It was always a breakfast to remember when I was growing up. We never
did a big breakfast at Christmas like some do, a few croissants maybe.
Birthdays the same – beautiful fresh orange juice, homemade jams.

But
Easter Sunday is always special. Somehow the soft boiled egg
is transformed into a celebration, accompanied by soldiers, generously
spread with butter. Some would add a lick of marmite, others anchovy
paste – rather grown up and maybe, if you’ll excuse the pun, over-egging
the cake.

I’m a purist – soft-boiled so the white is just set, the yolk runny
and golden. I peel the top – I don’t cut it as some do. I don’t know why -
maybe it’s the ceremony of it all. Anticipation. With each dunk or scoop
of the spoon I add more sea salt and pepper though so that each
mouthful is generously seasoned – eggs just cry
out for it.

The toast, too, is important. It must be white, but country
bread, not the sliced supermarket stuff. And the actual level of
toasting – I like a degree of variance in my soldiers, some very dark
and others ghostly pale – the perfect blend of textures and flavours.

So – although all your effort may go into a beautiful leg of lamb
studded with its traditional friends of garlic, anchovy and rosemary,
spare a thought for breakfast – and enjoy a perfect, runny, soft, dippy
egg.

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