Ok time to fess up. “Are you sure?” do I hear you say, ” So early on in your blogging journey?” And yes whilst I’m dicing with the julienne of risks, in potentially losing a niche cohort of an imaginary audience (and let’s face it, I can’t be too fussy in this department), it’s simply a risk I have to take. So here goes …

I don’t like omelettes. Gasp! And yes that was the sound of all Aunt Gwen fans fleeing for another blogging valley! Well, to say I don’t like omelettes isn’t strictly true and in the spirit of transparency, and as we’re still in the “getting to know you” phase of Freshers’ Week, it’s not that I don’t like them, they just irritate me. Always have. Always will?

Perhaps this is more because I am hopeless at making them and even more hopeless at accepting that the “secret” to the Madame Pollard’s legendary omelette on Mont St Michel is actually keeping it simple. And whilst Elizabeth David’s classic, “An omelette and a Glass of Wine” has sat all these years bossing me from under the dust on the bookshelf to do just that, I am simply uncomfortable with leaving things alone and as a result, sabotage the most simple of dishes. To have faith in the fresh eggs and the fresh butter? God that’s a leap of faith. But it’s there always – the nagging feeling that I should be better at making omelettes. I should be better at trusting the magic of two simple ingredients.

Why can’t I be that person?

But of course this isn’t really about the omelettes (it never usually is is it?!) but rather a symptom of my self-esteem or diminished self-esteem and this is where this blog’s purpose (if there has to be one?) is starting to take form. It is here, on “Broken Biscuits”, that I will share with you my journey to reconstructing life from a breaking point – a moment two weeks ago where all roads led to and stopped. Still. A moment where I realised that the compass was broken and I was lost. Lost in grief. Lost in faith. Lost in ambition. Lost in reality. And this is where we are … now. In the present. In a good optimistic place stripped of fear: naked but for the modesty figs of hope, joy and love.

If you allow me the indulgence of this continued metaphor (why thank you kind sir!) and if you’re rolling your eyes heaven ward, bear with me…. here comes the first food bloggy bit – an omelette recipe curtesy of Annette Pollard:

“I break some good eggs in a bowl, I beat them well, I put a good piece of butter in the pan, I throw the eggs into it, and I shake it constantly. I am happy, monsieur, if this recipe pleases you.”

How do you make yours?

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