David Basckin LIFESTYLE
In the eternal debate about which came first, the chicken or the egg, let me tell you, brothers and sisters, that the truth is finally known. It was the chicken. And how do we know this? Through direct observation of the real world, the only universal path to truth. It happened like this: about eight days ago Rachel my daughter bought a live chicken from a nearby poultry wholesaler. Not just any chicken, but a Lohmann Red, at the point of lay. This meant two things: the chicken was a thoroughbred fowl from a jolly good background, right at the start of a long and productive adult life. A handsome bird with golden plumage, we named her Isobel after a good friend’s sister who works in the movie business. My preference was for Roxy or maybe Lucille, but the voting went against me. Isobel was set up with a dish of laying mash lll mixed with sorghum for roughage and crushed mielies so that she could remember her roots, a bowl of water and released to range the garden. Her first encounter was with Scat our neutered tom, who tips the scales at a good 6kg. Scat like most domestic felines has an intense interior fantasy life, in which he knocks off birds regardless of size and species. Confronting Isobel, there was a brief eyeball-to-eyeball standoff. But news about his tragic operation had got through to the world of hens. Isobel leapt at Scat with her jagged beak agape. Scat ran straight up the cabbage tree and vanished from sight. So much for the cat problem. So much for feline folie de grandeur. Like all good farmers we lock up the fowl each night in a coop, something we had learnt to do the hard way. Our previous hen Harriet, free to range by day and night, had her head bitten off by the wild genet that lives in Mr Zulman’s garden down the road. In Africa, the jungle is everywhere. It took us six days to find Isobel’s nest, despite the postage stamp dimensions of our yard. Leaving two behind as an inducement to production, we now collect a single fresh egg every morning. This is one Stakhanovite chicken. Do her eggs taste different from the bought variety? Well, er, no, not really. Do they cost less? So far, including amortisation of the fowl, feeding expenses and psychotherapy for the cat, each egg is costing just more than R2. Assuming the price of laying mash holds constant, this should drop as the production runs extends, God, Isobel’s hormones and Mr Zulman’s genet, willing. Eggs at two bucks a time deserve something better than either a three-minute boil or a fat-spattering fry. A luxurious breakfast for two is made like this: Carefully break six or seven eggs into a clean and dry bowl. Whisk the eggs, preferably by hand. The idea is a light mix of white and yolk, not an homogenised, aerated yellow froth. Over a low to medium heat, melt some butter in a heavy-bottomed frying pan, taking care not to let it burn. When molten, add the beaten eggs. Keep the beaten eggs moving to avoid any adhesions to the pan. Allow the mass to set to a moist consistency. Lightly compress the scrambled eggs into a warmed teacup. Invert the cup onto a warmed serving place, so creating a firmly sculpted mound slightly to one side of the plate. Immediately prior to serving, add a single teaspoon of caviar to the top of the scrambled eggs. If your local Spar is out of Beluga, you can safely substitute Icelandic Lumpfish roe. Alternatively, and believe me my brothers and sisters, this is the best taste of the three, a half teapsoon of fresh Peck’s Anchovette added as a garnish gives this eggy fantasmagoria a lift-off like no other.