Is there a point to hot, pourable custard? You must have contrast. Tripe was a form of torture back in the day. Something to be beaten, with a sprinkling of salt or lemon, to bring you to your senses. My previous five wives banned me from the kitchen. I had reduced many to rubble in pursuit of the perfect poached egg. Can I pretend to be the man who sued God? This was not a recipe for fitness. Mash until pink and juicy. Onto a plate, a steaming poached egg, extra eggshell on top. Love? Disaster? The dog bit him.