Some evenings arrive already decided. You walk into the kitchen and there's nothing planned, nothing defrosted, nothing that wants three hours of your attention. The fridge has eggs. There's a stub of cheddar in the door. The chives outside the back door are doing well enough. That's an omelette. That's supper sorted.

I've made more omelettes than I could ever count, and the best ones were always the least considered. Three eggs, a fork, a pan you trust. The cheese goes in while the eggs are still soft, so it half-melts into something yielding and rich. The herbs go on at the end, torn or snipped, because heat dulls them and you want that green, peppery freshness against the warm egg. Folded, not flat. On a plate within two minutes of the eggs hitting the butter.

There's a confidence to a good omelette that I admire. It doesn't pretend to be more than it is. It doesn't ask you to shop or plan or think very hard. It asks only that you pay attention for about ninety seconds, and in return it gives you something genuinely good to eat. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one is the shortest conversation I know. We're only making dinner.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. Just the once. "Omelette. Cheddar. Chives. Tuesday. Tired." It didn't need anything else.