Some people cook; I laundry.

When it came time to buy appliances, I asked the salesman which range was the cheapest, and I took it. Couldn’t care less. They all heat frozen pizza, right? The washer dryer combo on the other hand was the best money could buy. I’m already feeling inadequate as they came out with the steam chamber dual dryer feature not long after. But the stove? Low miles. Looks new. Just a big white thing to wipe when cleaning.

As an avid meal prep-a-phobe, my eating habits are pretty bad. If it can’t be eaten out of the package, made with three ingredients or less, or involve nothing more complex than “microwave on high, turning tray half way though cooking time”, I’m just not interested. As I’ve said before, cooking is like milking a rattlesnake for anti-venom; it’s a dangerous task best left to professionals.

Mr. Right on the other hand, has the makings of a great cook, if only I could get him to do it more often. The only problem is he makes meals that are so unhealthy Ronald McDonald would cringe. Every entrée involves the killer combo of ‘crumble fresh bacon’ and ‘fry in bacon fat’. Thank goodness the planet is in such sad shape I have no desire to live much longer anyhoo…

A recent newspaper article on how to make the perfect poached egg caught our eye last week, and Al decided to give it a whirl. What a difference the whole left-brain/right-brain approach makes!

I consider a recipe to be a guideline. A general idea. A your-results-may vary (in my case: stink) kind of thing. Those little numbers besides the differ rent items? Suggestions. I mean let’s not get all anal here; a ¼ tsp. means a pinch. Just throw some in and move on. Not for Mr. I’ve Got to Do This Right.

Yes, folks, it’s time for another episode of Cooking With An Engineer!

The first clue I was in for a culinary treat was noticing he was holding a tape measure up to a saucepan. Excuse me? I asked. The article says at least three inches of water, he replies. Hmmm. Ok, maybe that’s why nothing I make comes out vaguely resembling the photo, but a tape measure? Really. What’s that in millimeters? I ask, trying to throw him off track. Too late. He’s already got the pot on, awaiting the magical boiling point. I continue to read my paper,

Now it’s getting good. He’s standing there with a meat thermometer, trying to deduce the precise moment that the 212-degree water drops to the desired 180 degrees. Sheesh. Again, I suspect his attention to detail will pay off, but really, who has this kind of time?

Now he smashes an egg into the water. You’re supposed to slide it in, I gasp. I know how to break an egg, he retorts. Yeah. Right. Whatever.

Now he’s going much slower with the second egg. Did you measure those with calipers? I ask. You want them the same volume, don’t you? Undeterred, he continues. Gallantly, he gives me the second, gentler egg.

Have to say, that was the best poached egg EVER.