Why is it sometimes such a challenge to reproduce something so impossibly simple? The only place in the world where I would choose an omelette from a menu is Relais d'Aydie, a popular hostelry in a hamlet bearing the same name (i never thought it would be possible to write omelette and hamlet in the same sentence). It's Piece de Resistance is an Omelette aux Cepes. I will never be able to compete with their version but when Jean Claude, our neighbour farmer, delivered a bagful of freshly picked ceps, slugs and all, I cleaned them of their gunge with a brush and tossed them into a pan of sizzling garlicky butter, before adding half a dozen free range eggs. The melange was delicious. Thank you, Jean Claude. The ceps on arrival were large and slippery, and not as delicious to look at in a plastic bag as they are in situe, but they can be transformed in minutes into something divine. Accompanying the ceps was a huge, dense marrow. Marrow memories are usually ghastly. Mine involve mushy, watery slush, baked in the oven with a mince meat filling. I owe my gratitude to a Moro recipe of inch thick half moons of marrow fried in butter and olive oil, served with a garlic, cumin, tahini and yoghurt sauce dribbled on top.