Omelette for One

Beach roses, bluebird days, breakfast

Hello! Thank you for the many funny, sweet notes in response to last week’s post. A particular favorite was a series of photos from my friend Ethan of lists he wrote as a kid, including “Top 5 Deodorant Brands” and ideas for what to do on rainy days at camp. Kids are so funny, and so are adults, making sense of our lives by writing lists upon lists. Speaking of lists, here's one I read and loved this week by the writer Caroline Cala Donofrio. She lists 40 things she needed to hear, and it’s full of good reminders, like “Do not confuse subjectivity with worth” and “Fear is a yield, not a stop sign.” It’s worth a read, especially if you’re like me and crave the clarity of a list. 

Here on beautiful Fishers Island, we’ve turned a corner weather-wise. Although the solstice is still a few weeks away, it feels as though we’re firmly in summer. Swimming in the ocean no longer requires wincing through the cold; now it’s a welcome respite from the warmth. And with every week, the island appears greener, lusher, and more alive. A new discovery for me is beach roses, which are in full bloom right now, their petals electric pink and fragrant as your grandmother’s perfume, powdery and floral. It’s a special time to be here. The air tastes like summer, but the beaches are still largely empty, with water as clear as glass. I’m told that July is when summer folks migrate to the island in full force, so I’m embracing the June serenity.

Beach roses! Electric

A particularly gorgeous evening on the water

I look out on a harbor from my window at home, and there are only a few boats moored, which I know will change before long. More dominant are the birds! Ospreys diving for fish, a family of geese floating along, plump loons sitting pretty. 

I have today off, and spent the morning in the best way I know how: drinking coffee, frying bacon, picking chives from the garden for an omelette, and playing Joni Mitchell’s Hejira loudly and all the way through. As I made my omelette, I realized it might be a nice thing to write about. My dad taught me how to make an omelette, a lesson he learned from his dad. And thinking back, it might be the first thing I ever learned to cook — a way to nourish myself before math tests and lacrosse practices and theater rehearsals and whatever else I was doing as a tween. 

My dad and grandpa’s technique includes adding a splash of milk to the eggs, and when they just start to set in the skillet, nudging the edges inward and letting the raw center spill to the sides, creating a ripple effect. In go the fixings (always cheese, sometimes something else), and then a gentle fold before sliding it onto a plate. On that note, use a nonstick skillet for a perfect fold and easy clean-up —no need to be a martyr!

I love omelettes for many reasons, but in part because I know that as long as I have eggs, I can make one. An omelette can also feel quite chic, somehow. Perhaps the chicness I associate with omelettes is because of British food writer Elizabeth David and her book An Omelette and a Glass of Wine. David always struck me as terribly chic. Or maybe it’s because of movies like The Hundred-Foot Journey, in which a young Indian chef, played by Manish Dayal, makes an omelette with a French restaurateur (Helen Mirren!). Watch that scene, and suddenly, making an omelette will seem like the most romantic thing imaginable. 

Anyway, enough talk of chicness! In An Omelette and a Glass of Wine, David wrote, “As everybody knows there is only one infallible recipe for the perfect omelette: your own.”