Huevos

I love eggs. All eggs, although I am particular given a chance. Didn't always, since as a kid, I found the egg whites revolting.

My mother poached eggs. Or boiled them to dye for Easter. Or deviled them for family gatherings. Poached in an aluminum poaching pan, with four little holders held up by a frame. The yolks were fine, but since I had to eat the whole thing, I gagged down the whites with as much salt as I could get away with, then savored the crumbly yolk. Much the same for hard boiled, took a lot of salt. She occasionally made an omelette, with lots of cheese, crusty on the outside. Cheese heals many wounds. Even cheap cheese.

For deviling, she would cut the egg in half, mush all the yolks together with mayo and sometimes sweet relish, refill the halved whites, and sprinkle with paprika. Since the paprika from the little tin never seemed to have any flavor, I always assumed it was for decoration. I could about stomach the whites, when they were chewed up with yolk mush all together in my mouth.

Mostly, my mother used eggs for baking, often complaining that they were awfully small for large eggs, "'pullets', that's what these are!" Never did learn how to properly crack them, a skill that eludes me to this day. Although I can separate yolks, with the proper tool, most of the time.

Learned about frying eggs from a young woman I met on my first job in northern Michigan. I'd never seen eggs cooked that way, cracked into a hot, oiled pan, and gently swirled. Tasted amazing, all mixed together.

The ex ruined eggs, cooking them too long until they were denatured and watery curds. The Army knew how to do eggs, strangely enough. Diner food is what the Army does for breakfasts, and they do it well, western omelets became a favorite. So when I returned, I liked my eggs lightly fried, as I'd originally been shown. No idea how to omelet, though. Still couldn't crack them, even after I spent a morning in a chow hall in Saudi cracking endless eggs. Lots of folks got a little extra calcium that breakfast.

On my own, through nursing school, I lived on cheap eggs and ramen noodles. Comfort food, calories. Gradually, going to restaurants, I learned to add pepper and hot sauce. Then finding chicken raising co-workers, I began to do better by the eggs. Nothing as wonderful as a really fresh egg from a happy chicken, fried gently in real butter, eaten hot, soft and unseasoned. I still can't make an omelette, although I make something close. A good whisk helps.





Finally found out what a pullet is, from Farmgal. And their little eggs, that taste just as good.

Painted the raw plaster, and this circumscribed area, so as not to get into the fiddly bits. Not completely enamored of how it looks, but love how much more light the room is. Call it a transitional phase.