Last night we were eating frittata again, the result of turning out the right-hand veg bin in the fridge. (Left-hand veg bin is stuff that keeps -- i.e., roots 'n' tubers.) Eggs are cheap in Perth County, where poultry production runs a close second to hogs. (Yes, the cooked breakfast is a thing here.)

As I shovelled the eggy, cheesy, veggy forkfuls down my neck, I said to Himself, "You know, a lot of great food is downright easy to make." Himself is wary of such pronouncements, as I tend to misoverestimate his familiarity with certain domestic tasks, but for once asked me to elaborate. "Frittata, for example, requires exactly two cooking skills: chopping veg to uniform size, and adding hot food to raw egg without curdling the egg."

"Ah," he said, in his lawyerly way, "but you also have to know when to stop cooking, and that is the hard part."

Come to think of it, knowing when to stop is the secret to many -- dare I say most? -- things in life.