They’re lovely, really, and so taken for granted. Those subtle gradations of color, that perfect shape. Some chickens produce amazing shades of blue and green – no dye needed. Speaking of dye though – remember the absolute joy of coloring Easter eggs? I was so delighted when my kids were old enough to give me an excuse to play again. Last year they were too old for it, and there was no Egg Dying Extravaganza. I think this year I may play on my own.
However, the eggs in this post are destined for another fate. When I am tired, or a little bit down, I find myself craving the comfort of a perfect egg. This can be fried (yolks just a little runny but not too much), poached, or scrambled. We won’t speak of the evil hard-boiled in this post, which is all about happy things, and not learning to master control of the gag reflex.
Somewhere there was a hen. I’d like to believe she lived in a rustic chicken coop and spent her days outside scratching for seeds in the dirt and catching grasshoppers. I realize I am thinking of the privileged chickens of my childhood and not the realities of the day, but this is my happy place, so indulge me.
Some chicken, happy or otherwise, produced this beautiful egg, which I have selected for my breakfast. Into the pan it goes, where it sizzles and bubbles in real butter.
Healthy margarine can go on toast, but fried eggs just have to be done in butter. No way around it. There is an art to the perfect egg – this morning I missed it by about 30 seconds and the yolk was a little too done. Not hard, but not runny enough to soak into the toast.
A minor problem, easily remedied by the addition of cheese.
For true luxury, one would of course add bacon and hashbrowns. But that’s a family weekend breakfast, and not one for a morning when I’m meant to be writing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, College Boy has emerged from slumber, and I have just offered to make him some eggs.