Mr FD poaches eggs the way they are meant to be poached. In a saucepan of boiling water with a splash of white vinegar. Pretty good. Not perfect, but pretty good.
I do not.
The only way you will receive a poached egg from my kitchen is if I have an egg poacher. One of those pans with an egg poaching insert with little cups to cradle the egg.
Even then, I can’t guarantee the quality of the poaching. Sometimes, I overfill the pan with water so that boiling introduces water to egg. Worse still, is when I crack the egg and maybe a little egg spills into the water. Then, of course, everything boils up and over. Not nice.
Any other type of egg, I am the master. Fried, scrambled, omeletted (is that a word? If Shakespeare could make up new words, so can the Flamingo Dancer!) Just not poached.
Mr FD does not poach eggs often. When he does, it is a huge drama. It involves a cast of hundreds, well, me anyway. He has this terrible case of selective amnesia that overtakes him every time he is in the kitchen which means he can never find mixing bowls or spatulas. He always knows where the fridge is, and the bottle opener, but that is about it, poor dear. He always needs my expert location skills. Fetch and carry skills too.
The kitchen is usually a mess afterwards and Mr FD needs a long lie down from the stress and exertion. It’s not a pretty sight, especially Mr FD lying down. One is left feeling that maybe the price for those poached eggs is to high for optimum enjoyment.
And your partner? Is it possible they can do anything better than you?