Day 23: Fried Eggs at Midnight
When I was a kid, I remember my dad would make two things exceptionally well: spaghetti and poached eggs. (No, not together.)
There was a day – I was young, seven or so – when my mom had gone into surgery to have her kidney removed. I remember being scared. Really scared, and really quiet. I remember sitting in the kitchen with an inflatable, pink-polka-dot, inner tube around my torso because while everyone else was going swimming, I wanted to stay by the phone. Just in case.
My dad came in the kitchen. He looked at me, paused, and started boiling water. In the fog of childhood memory, I really can’t be sure if he said anything or if I did, of if, in fact, the inner tube was striped and blue, but I can still see that poached egg he made me, as clear as day. If I try hard enough, I could probably still smell it.
Toast. Butter. Egg cut up, all over the top, with yolk pouring out, and WAY too much pepper for a seven-year-old kid ‘cause that’s how he liked it.
It was the best egg I’ve ever had.
And I still can’t make a poached egg worth eating, so I cheat and fry ‘em.
My good thing today was coming home from a late rehearsal, aware of the scared and quiet that still lingers in me, and making myself an egg.
My stomach was grumbling but it was my heart that was hungry.
Toast. Butter. Egg cut up, all over the top, with yolk pouring out, and WAY too much pepper for a grown, adult woman ‘cause that’s how he made it.
2 Replies to “Day 23: Fried Eggs at Midnight”
One of the things I remember my dad making was also poached eggs, except he boiled them in milk. Then he poured a little of the milk on the toast and slathered with butter. One of those comfort foods I still make and eat about twice a year.
That sounds delicious! Isn’t it funny how some of the simplest foods bring deep satisfaction? Thank you, Paula =)