Bring Me an Omelet, Woman

          Hubby said it was the best omelet he’d ever tasted. He exulted over every bite and wanted to know what it was flavored with. Music to the ears of a cooking nerd. And I guess I am a cooking nerd. I have a designated omelet pan: The Rudolph Stanish Omelet Pan, it says on the bottom. It’s just the right size and weight and has perfectly curved sides. I never use it for anything but omelets. You’re never supposed to wash it, either, just wipe it out with paper towels, or maybe scrub it with salt if necessary.

          The perfect omelet pan is heavy because high heat is crucial to the perfect omelet. When it was good and hot, I dropped in a knob of butter. (OK, OK, a tablespoon. But the British term is more fun.) It sizzled and bubbled and spread. At the ready was a bowl in which I had used a fork to mix three eggs, a tablespoon (or a knob) of water and a drop of hot sauce—never too much mixing. There should still be streaks of yolk and white. Into the hot, hot pan the mixture goes, and right away I start stirring it in the pan with the fork to give all the egg a chance to cook against the hot surface.

          When the egg was almost cooked through, still a little wet, I arranged a few strips of prosciutto on the omelet and rolled it up with a spatula. Waiting to embrace it was a tortilla I had spread with garlic-flavored Philly Cooking Crème and placed in a buttered frying pan over medium heat. I tipped the omelet onto the tortilla and waited for the tortilla to brown a bit on the bottom. What a thing of beauty it was when I folded the tortilla over the omelet, slid it onto a plate and balanced it with a simple salad of red leaf lettuce. Oh, yeah.

          Today is our wedding anniversary, me and Hubby. Thirty-seven years, if my math is right. So here’s to marriage—and the perfect omelet. Long may they coexist. 

 Rudolph Stanish, Real Person