Give It Time, They Say
Could never be a philosopher; here's some existential rant about the passing of time.
Give it time, they say. This could apply to a roast in the oven or love or a difficult conversation. It’s wise advice that I heedlessly ignored in my younger years. I have a habit of being impatient (although admittedly, never too impulsive), which is perhaps why I didn’t start really leaning into the joy of cooking until I was a little older.
I’ve never been a fan of timers when it comes to cooking. It feels too restricted; like I’m giving my food too many parameters. No room for error. It assumes that a recipe and its writer knows better than my senses. Or that it knows my oven, which takes longer to preheat, rattles when I twist the dial past 200ºC and can sometimes burn things on a whim. Instead of alarms, I use different methods of passing the time.
Watching a noughties rom com for roasting a chicken; lengthier European arthouse cinema works well for slow-cooked ragus (or, you know, a Harry Potter film). Half of the New York Times Daily podcast when brewing coffee. A shower whilst the kettle boils. Watering every plant waiting for toast.
I’ve often wondered if we ever feel the passage of time as it really is. That is, in real time. Currently, everything is in motion and daily scenes sometimes feel slowed-down or fast-forwarded, as if I was in control of time for once, pressing skip skip skip and pause. All we have is time, until there’s no time left at all, and when that happens, we seem to make more of it. We forget both the most mundane of tasks and exciting experiences all take and use up time. Sometimes we don’t like to acknowledge that time is ticking, as if we’re willing it away or so acutely aware of its potential end that it’s too terrifying to admit as much as we make time, it’s taken away from us too.
I’ve written before about the need to rest, but there’s also something in giving things time. And not wishing it away. Time to grow. Time to heal. Time to let things go. Time to feel. Time to get on with the washing up. Time to listen to a voice note. Time to check in with a friend, or ourselves. Time to take care. Time to fail. Time to eat snacks.
It took me a lot of time to get here. Both in the grander, larger sense; but also to this page, as I put it off for days, hours and minutes. Wondering how I would wax lyrical about time and food and how I was feeling about it all. I suppose this might be as nonsensical as the concept of time itself. Apologies. But I hope you get what I mean.
I’ve been living off takeout dumplings and noodles and a stash of tomatoes, sourdough, rocket, eggs and some questionably all herbs. I have literally cooked nothing apart from this cute breakfast plate. So more of a not-recipe than recipe today: the perfect scrambled eggs.
Personal opinion: two fresh, non-refrigerated eggs whisked with a fork. A larger than you think you need collection of chives snipped into the mixture. Maybe some leftover dill if you happen to have some (mine stay for months in a jar of fresh water in the fridge). A pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper. A lot of salty butter in a non-stick pan (the toast goes in now). The butter will sizzle and you’ll pour the eggs in and just leave them while you slice a tomato into thick rounds, maybe a cuke if you’ve got one, too. Then, using a wooden spoon, release the bottom of the eggs which will have started to form a little, and vigourously stir for a minute. Take it off the heat and keep stirring for a little longer until they look fluffy. The toast will have popped out, so grab a plate, slather it with mayonnaise (yes, you heard me), then add the tomatoes (and cuke) with a pinch of salt and some lemon zest. Add some rocket to the top then a little drizzle of olive oil. Herby eggs on the side. Ice cold apple juice. Hot coffee. Warm sun. Good book. Now go.