Every morning, I make an egg for my son. The task doubles as a chance for daydreaming, a rare occurrence when you’re the parent of a toddler. I strap Henry into his chair, toss a few Cheerios in his direction, and get to work.
He doesn’t have exacting tastes, so I’ve learned to ditch the skillet and stovetop in favor of a coffee mug and the microwave. The process takes about a minute and a half: Spray down the mug with a little oil, crack the egg and use a fork to scramble the yolk, nuke it for 25 seconds. I do all this in what feels like a single motion, often before I’ve had my coffee. At this point, Henry is engrossed in his cereal, and I contemplate, well, eggs.
It started with YouTube. The British celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, has posted a video in which he demonstrates how three nationalities make scrambled eggs. The English method is, of course, practical and disciplined: Stir the egg at a medium pace, in a medium-sized saucepan, over medium heat. The result is uniformly medium-sized curds that fit neatly on a slice of toast.
According to Oliver, the French, being French, have developed an elaborate technique requiring a whisk, a glass bowl suspended over a hot-water bath, and a lot of time. Their œufs eventually end up as curds Oliver describes as “very, very fine.” Who’s got the time and patience for that? Non, merci.
Finally, Oliver cooks good old-fashioned American “diner” eggs, folding them into large, untidy curds that, when finished, sit on the plate in a beautiful blob. They look delicious. I like to imagine making eggs like that one day, but for now, I’m sticking with the mug.
The microwave timer goes off and momentarily distracts my son from pushing his remaining cereal pieces around his highchair tray. He gives me a look that says, “Wasn’t there talk of more food earlier?” Another round of stirring, and the mug goes back in for another 23 seconds (precision being the key to a good microwave egg). My mind wanders.
Maybe it was the food writer Michael Ruhlman’s obsession with the egg that’s led to my own. His how-to book of techniques and ingredients essential for anyone from the casual home cook to the restaurant chef contains a whole chapter on the egg—”A Culinary Marvel.” It features recipes for mayonnaise, bread pudding, cheesecake, and, of course, scrambled eggs.
“If you could choose to master a single ingredient,” Ruhlman writes, “no choice would teach you more about cooking than the egg. It is an end in itself; it’s a multipurpose ingredient; it’s an all-purpose garnish; it’s an invaluable tool. The egg teaches your hands finesse and delicacy. It helps your arms develop strength and stamina. It instructs in the way proteins behave in heat and in the powerful ways we can change food mechanically. It’s a lever for getting other foods to behave in great ways. Learn to take the egg to its many differing ends, and you’ve enlarged your culinary repertoire by a factor of ten.”
The timer beeps again, and Henry’s egg is done. By now, he’s spent a discernible portion of his morning waiting for his breakfast, a point he makes through a series of increasingly loud grunts. I tip the mug over a plate, and, thanks to that strategic spray of oil, a disc of perfectly cooked egg slides out. A culinary marvel!
Before Henry can eat his egg puck, it needs to cool and be cut into bite-sized pieces. This I try to do in orderly, 90-degree slices—the English way, I like to think. But the finished product is a haphazard mess. Over in the highchair, we’ve reached DEFCON 1, so there’s a quick transfer from plate to tray. His mood shifts immediately as he stuffs his face with eggy gold.
Which brings to mind that riddle from The Hobbit: “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.” Gollum guesses correctly—an egg—though I always thought of it as one of the more difficult riddles in the book. It’s simple and elegant and a little tough to crack.
I’m chuckling to myself at this witty observation when I look up from my coffee. Most of the egg has ended up on the floor, in Henry’s bib, on top of his head—everywhere but in his mouth, where it’s supposed to go. He flashes a toothy, knowing grin.
That’s okay. I’ll make him another one tomorrow.
