Breakfast of champions: the egg muffin

Egg muffin


1 breakfast muffin
1 egg
3-4 cocktail sausages


Small frying pan
Egg ring
Plastic slice
Bread knife

How to make

Split the egg muffin in half lengthways and pop in the toaster.

Meanwhile, stick a bit of heat under the frying pan. Put the egg ring in the frying pan ( you don’t need any butter or oil) and crack the egg into it. The egg will flow into a beautiful disc shape. Kick off your preferred coffee making routine. If you live in London, this will mean ordering a Starbucks via Uber Eats to be droned in through the kitchen window. Or stick the kettle on for a cup of instant.

Split the cocktail sausages and place, cut side down, next to the egg ring to heat through.
By now, the muffin should be toasting nicely. Hoik it out and butter it.
Arrange the cocktail sausages on the muffin and top with the egg once cooked through (2-3 minutes.)
Place the top half of the muffin and voila, a breakfast that will get you through an entire day of any number of children firing questions at you relentlessly.

What, in the name of Jehovah…

…is this?

It looks to me like a cherry tomato got given the kiss of life by a magic chipmunk.

Anyway, the species isn’t important. The point is, that this came out of a Kinder egg. Which I’m sure last time I checked (circa 1989) was all about getting a load of tiny bits of plastic out of a small yellow capsule, which you then fed to your baby sister? Or alternatively, if you were a little more gifted than I was, you assembled the pieces into some kind of multi-coloured dumper truck, crocodile, or self-propelled dinosaur, using a sort of cartoon strip / manga style instruction leaflet. Then there was the feeling of utter triumph when you eventually finished and held aloft your creation, which was by this stage entirely coated in a thick layer of mungy chocolate.

And then you pulled it back a couple of yards on its tiny wheels and off it zoomed under the fridge, never to be seen again. Or something.

What you definitely did not expect to find having spent a good ten minutes putting all the pressure that eight year old fingers can muster right on the join of the pod, until it popped open sending tiny jointed limbs all over the floor, was a tiny, red, demented looking squirrel grinning up at you, fully assembled. I feel cheated. I feel especially cheated because it wasn’t my Kinder egg in the first place, so I didn’t even get to enjoy the mungy chocolate.

More to the point, is there a factory somewhere where people get paid to put the little bits of plastic together now, for all the lazy kids who stopped buying Kinder surprise when they realised there was some work involved – because where’s the fun in that?


I am just about to cycle half a mile to the shop to get a proper free range egg.  This is because I am making a cake this afternoon, and I refuse to buy nasty eggs from the corner shop, which are definitely of the battery variety.  It occurs to me that if I was allowed to have chickens in the garden, this probably wouldn’t be necessary.

Plus I wouldn’t then have five other eggs sitting in the fridge door making me feel guilty for not having a plan for them.

This enhances the thought I had over the week-end that we really should move out of London soon, so that we have room for chickens, and a lovely allotment patch style vegetable garden, like wot we dug for Nige yesterday.