a recipe for disaster

for some reason this summer seems to be chocker full of weddings and births - not being particulary related to each other (we're all living in sin with bastard offspring these days). This sudden glut obviously says something about the next phase in life that I am about to enter. I can only say that I hope it passes quickly and without lasting effect.
The next wedding event I'm to attend, on appearances, bears the hallmarks of being the most promising of this year's - by that I do not mean that I expect the betrothed to remain happily wedded for the rest of their years, only that the party may prove to be a decent but singular day out. In paticular, I take my hat off to their gift idea which is both inventive and selfless. Rather than scratching around for JL vouchers to pour into some joint white-goods fund (the spending of such to become the source of many a future barny) they have come up with the rather novel request of a personally compiled cd and recipe from each guest. Typically, my efforts to appropriately dress myself for the event have now been eclipsed by the hugely more important task of selecting the right combination of tracks and treats that will best encapsulate the beating heart of LVR, for the wedding and all time, preserving my essence through the ages so that I may perhaps be resurrected in some form by later inhabitants of this planet when the sun lies swollen, red and dying in the sky and the making of fresh gnochi has become a lost art to those who crave it...
Whatever.
While the cd is proving to be a most arduous of tasks (how can I credibly segue between both knifehandchop and severed heads in the same mix?) the recipe looks as though it's a done deal. The finished article is to be written on the back of a postcard so there isn't much room to manouvere, nor the need to show off. Rather than meticulously detailing how an ox tongue might be first skinned, then bathed, rolled and pressed if one were so inclined, I feel it better to pass on one of those 'grannies own recipes - passed down by her granny before her' that actually prove quite simple once enlightened. Not that I have one of those. But I do have something... If children were ever to ever make an appearance in my life, I would entrust the most worthy of them with this recipe - born of my own labour yet the precise origins of the dish remaining unclear as if guided by Muses. Actually, Dominator Poo did point out a passing resemblance to an omlette once devoured in Morocco...

• start with a glug of olive oil in a large, heavy frying pan (the kind you'd hit somebody with if they ever broke into your home)
• dice a block of holoumi and add
• hopefully you've had the presence of mind to apply some heat by this point so you're actually frying the holoumi ('serious' heat but not 'bugger me' heat so that you can hear the pan sizzle but nothing's smoking) - you could eat it raw but then I wouldn't ask you to put it in a frying pan, would I?
• throw in a heavy dose of paprika
• if there are any peppers lying around then dice'em senseless and throw those in too.
• same applies to olives (I'm into black) although I find you're best of squashing them into halves with your fingers rather than pissing around with a knife trying to slice the bastards
• ...so it's all frying along nicely, the haloumi is starting to brown and the peppers have gone all shiny - probably a good point to season a bit.
• Find yourself say two large tomoatoes or three regular sized ones and slice them rougly (think of something dirty while you're doing it). The idea is to add them to the pan (so do that... in a mo) but you have to be careful that you don't over do it at this point as this will make the dish too wet - we are not making a fucking pasta sauce!
• Give the tomatoes a little sprinkle of sugar (it reduces their acidity, apparently) and a manly slosh of hot pepper sauce. With the gas set on serious frying power, the tomatoes should be reducing quite vigorously so that the whole dish is wet but not liquid.
• After 3 or so minutes, make a little well in the middle of the pan and crack an egg into it - like a gladatorial arena with the rest of ingredients watching around the edge as the egg is put to death.
• Don't stop there! Chase it around with a scrapey thing so that it doesn't stick.
• As it starts to firm up, mix it in with the rest of the pan.
• Done. Add a touch more freshly ground black pepper and, for the hardcore krew, another dose of pepper sauce.
• Unless you're an animal, serve it on plate. I would probably recommend a hunk of bread to accompany although I normally make do with a coffee.

...bollocks - that's not going to fit on a postcard.