I began making omelets when I was about 10. One time, I was like 13 and Dave was 10; and as I was eating one I'd just made We were HOME ALONE!!!! He comes out in tighty whiteys. It's still clear as a day in my mind's eye. He asks very meekly, very respectfully: "can I have an omelet?"
I can't recall if I actually made him one though right now, I like to think I did.
This was completely on the fly. On a lark. ...Frankly, I'm a bit pissed that I got only one at-a-boy for Bad Company in my video about Over Easy Eggs for You Maggots, but numerous taunts over the Toto. That was basically the end of Pandora for me. Fail. I fucked up the video and had to start again, edit, etc., and then it was fucking Toto. I should have just gone with crappy video and Bad Company for music. ...But, don't worry, gals. It makes me laf, what sort of pussys pass for males, now days. I'm still very Bad Company. Bad to the Bone.
I didn't have to be as bad this time, because the egg yolk does't have to be runny. When it does, you better be fucking Bad, man.
A red onion and mushroom omelet—you can call it a frittata, technically, if you're an asshole and you like that—being an asshole—cooked in the rather carefree style I like after decades of doing it. I can do it anyway you like, from Julia Child (fast) to Jacques Pépin (slow).
Here's how I do it most times, just for myself.
I absolutely do not care what a single soul in the universe thinks about that. I know what I'm doing.