While the dough rested, he cracked the eggs.
Monster eggs were twice the size of anything he'd known before this world, with shells thick enough to need actual force, and yolks the colour of a deep sunset, orange-red and vivid. He cracked six of them into a bowl, added a long pour of the full cream milk, and grated a solid handful of the sharp cheese directly in.
The trick was the milk. Most people didn't do this. Most people cracked eggs into a hot pan and called it done, and then wondered why their eggs were flat and rubbery. You added cold full cream milk, you whisked it until the mixture was pale and slightly foamy, and then you cooked it low and slow and didn't stop moving them. That was it. That was the whole secret. The milk created steam as it cooked, and the steam made the eggs lift, and if you pulled them off just before they looked done, they'd finish themselves in the residual heat and come out soft and thick and almost unbearably good.
