Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay
that starts here:
If there's one food that stands out above the others in my life, it would be eggs. It's a love affair that began early and stuck--like that missed smear of yolk on your plate."by the way, are you going to eat that?" Not like the dreaded banana, that (apparently) I was born to loathe. Mother would share that story once in awhile. She couldn't believe it was banana that I refused to get past my lips. (gag) I can.
But back to eggs, lovely eggs . . . Every weekday childhood breakfast, included a bowl of oatmeal and an over easy egg with toast. I didn't dally over the oatmeal, but I had a particular routine/method when it came to enjoying that egg and the most important part was the division of the single piece of toast: toast for dipping and toast for slipping what remained of the egg onto--then open mouth to slowly, methodically, savor each buttery, yolky, crunchy, bite. Sigh.
There was one morning, (I remember, thanks to offending the cook) when Mother wasn't cooking breakfast--instead it was oldest sissy S at the stove (13 years older than I). She preferred to cook her eggs on a higher heat . . . leading to the DREADED wires around the egg edges! Sadly, this little imp pointed it out and the story still lives on. (No, I did not roll my eyes just now, I swear.)
Though, my most favorite egg memory, was when I was home in bed with one bug or another, and Mother would deliver a perfectly cooked, 3 minute egg, cubed and peppered on a saucer, with toast, to my bed. I tried to duplicate that nostalgic wee meal several times, but finally decided it was the memory and moment, rather than the actual food. Thanks for that lovely egg memory, Mom. Love you always.
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