“Ami’s Lahore Omelette Morning”
The fan was humming its tired song, and the first light over Lahore was the gentle kind—thin, soft, forgiving. I stepped into the kitchen barefoot and winced: the tiles were cool enough to wake anyone. Ami was already there, pushing back her sleeves, tapping two eggs on the counter like she was knocking on a neighbor’s door. “You’re late,” she said, not unkindly. My brother drifted in behind me, hair a mess, carrying yesterday’s homework like a shield.
“Fluffy omelette today,” Ami announced, pulling a steel bowl closer. “No arguing.” She cracked the eggs—clean breaks, no shells—then reached for the milk. “Just a splash. Don’t drown it.” The smell of butter warming in the pan started its slow, patient climb. Outside, a motorbike coughed down the lane. The city was waking up with us.
Ingredients:
- 4 large eggs (room temperature)
- 2 tablespoons milk (or 1 tablespoon cream if you’re feeling fancy)
- 1 small onion, finely chopped
- 1 small tomato, seeds removed, finely chopped
- 1 green chili, finely chopped (optional, but Ami always says “essential”)
- 2 tablespoons fresh coriander, chopped
- 1/2 teaspoon salt (taste and adjust)
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1 tablespoon butter or oil (Ami swears by half butter, half oil)
I whisked the eggs, and Ami watched like a teacher who knows the trick and wants you to find it yourself. “Air,” she said. “Invite it in.” So I whisked a bit longer. The mixture changed color slightly, turned smoother, a promise forming right there in the bowl. My brother took charge of the chopping but kept eating the tomato cubes when he thought no one was looking. “We’re counting,” Ami warned. “This isn’t a fruit salad.”
There was a quick power flicker—the kind that makes you hold your breath—and then everything settled again. The pan was ready. Butter went in and melted with a small sigh. I poured the eggs and tilted the pan just a little, letting the mixture find the edges. “Low flame,” Ami said. “No rushing. Food hates rushing.”
We scattered the onions and tomatoes over the surface, then the green chili. The kitchen smelled like the kind of morning that forgives a late start. Ami showed me that gentle wrist move: lift the cooked edges, let the uncooked slip under, like tucking a blanket. “Don’t fight it,” she murmured. “Guide it.” I tried, and for once, the omelette listened.
She folded it—only once, like a letter—and it held. Golden on the outside, cloud-soft inside. My brother pressed his nose to the plate like a detective at a crime scene. “You’re fogging the coriander,” Ami said, amused. She sprinkled it anyway, bright green confetti over a small victory.
We didn’t overcomplicate the sides: two slices of toasted bread, brushed with a whisper of butter; a bowl of thick, cold yogurt; and a little dish of chili flakes because someone always wants more heat. My brother reached first, as usual. The bite slowed him down. “Oh,” he said, with that surprised respect you give to things that look simple but aren’t. I took mine, and the outside had that quiet crisp snap, then the middle melted away—to egg, to morning, to comfort. No fancy words needed.
Ami poured tea into chipped cups—our old set with tiny blue flowers that never seem to fade. We ate and traded news. The vegetable man shouted something from the street, and a sparrow argued with the window. It felt like Lahore doing what it always does: carrying you forward, gently but firmly. My brother declared, mouth full, “Ami, you’ve ruined hotel omelettes for me.” Ami smiled like she’d won a small, secret game.
Quick tips we learned (the real secrets):
- Whisk longer than you think. When it looks silky, you’re close.
- Keep the flame low. Let the omelette decide when it’s ready.
- Don’t overload with vegetables—scatter, don’t bury.
- Remove tomato seeds if you want fewer soggy spots.
- Half butter, half oil gives flavor and keeps it from burning.
We cleared the plates and let the day begin. There was school, and traffic, and a hundred tiny tasks waiting outside the door. But inside, a small omelette had stitched a better mood into the morning. Ami rinsed the pan, set it to dry, and said—more to herself than to us—“Tomorrow, maybe aloo paratha.” My brother cheered. I said yes, of course. Because some promises taste like breakfast.
