It Never Happened in America
While eating an egg last week here in Ireland it occurred to me that it had never happened to me in America.
About 10 minutes earlier I was asked if I wanted an egg.
That’s all I was asked.
-Do you want an egg?
My grandmother taught me it was polite to say yes, so I said yes. Plus, I quite fancied an egg.
-Do you want an egg?
That’s what I was asked. And that’s what I answered.
I wasn’t asked if I wanted it easy over. Or hard up, for that matter.
I wasn’t asked if I wanted it sunny side up. Or arseways down.
I wasn’t asked if I wanted the yolk runny or hard. Or broken.
I wasn’t even asked if I wanted a fried egg.
That never happened to me in America.
So it was easy to say yes.
But that’s not all that never happened to me in America. The egg I was given was indeed fried. It was burnt, in fact. Just the way my grandmother in Dublin used to cook them for me.
And I loved it. Because I like eggs. And I don’t care what shape they are or how you cook them or what they look like. And when a big dirty mug of tea hits that film of grease left on my lips from a fried egg, it’s better than…well, I’m probably getting a little personal.
How do you like your eggs?
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• Eating Turkey in Ireland and in America
• Solving the World’s Problems with Milk and Onions
• A Vegan Irish Recipe
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Eolaí gan Fhéile:
Well my friend, I’ll tell you how I like my eggs. I heat up a skillet and toss in a cube of butter.
Then I use the smallest buscuit cutter to cut perfectly centered circles out of two slices of honey-wheat bread.
I toss the the two slices of defaced bread into the hot, buttered skillet.
I eat the two round cut-outs from the honey wheat bread.
Then I crack open two large eggs and I drop each one into the middle of the bread holes.
When I think they are about half done, I flip ‘em to toast the other side.
I salt and pepper ‘em while they finish up.
I scoop them out of the pan while the yolk is still a bit runny.
I eat ‘em with a fork, swirling the toast/egg combo through the yolk on the plate, sopping it all up.
I wash it all down with ice cold 2% milk, followed by a hot cup of coffee with cream and sweetener.
That’s my weekend breakfast.
That does sound good. You should cook me breakfast some time.
Best eggs ever for me… when I went up to Letterkenny for the fleadh several years ago, the kind lady from whom I rented the wee flat brought me the makings of a fry up. After playing (and drinking) for over 30 hours in the course of two days in a pub turned private with a bunch of lovely old lads from County Mayo and walking home soaked in Donegal rain, those burned, fried, lacy-edged eggs went down a treat with the strrrrong tea needed after all of that. God, I miss playing…
eolai - I only cook breakfast for someone I just slept with and you and me just ain’t that close, my friend.
I didn’t always cook ‘em breakfast, mind you.
But over the years I’ve discovered that fixing them a nice breakfast and sending them gently on their way with a peck on the cheek and a pat on the ass was much better received than wrapping a note that says “Thanks for the fuck, was it good for you?” around a cold Pop Tart and sticking under their windshield wiper.
You learn things.
Zeta - Yes. Rain and music render variations on eggs irrelevant.
XO - Yeah, you wouldn’t want it to rain on your pop tart.
over easy, 3 of them.
on a mayo’d toast sandwhich, with 3 stips of bacon, the mere thought of lettuce and some garlic salt.
yolk running down my chin and a strong cup of coffee.
You people are making me hungry.
No place like home, eh Eolaí? They just know you. You can communicate so much more efficiently and with such deeper understanding (in general!)
That’s one of the only things I actually miss about my hometown.
SOO… an teach sa Ghaeltacht- céard a tharla leis???? An bhfuair tú é??? Nach bheadh sin thar barr!
Oh yes, the many possible answers to “How would you like your egg(s)?” Right along with the offerings of potatoes, salad dressings, or if you’re lucky, beers on tap. I sometimes feel tempted to ask the server about one of these again just to test their skill. But as far as my answer, sometimes I’m paralyzed by the choices, and all over something as silly as eggs. I seem to forget this is unlikely to be The Ultimate Egg, that I will live to egg again another day, and that I should Just Pick One. (This is why I eagerly read “The Paradox of Choice”, which must’ve touched a nerve in a lot of people since it got its author invited to the TED conference.)
My favorite way to have eggs is me being four years old and Mama making them soft-boiled and served in my very own egg cup. And again fifteen years later, my singing partner’s mum teaching me about making little toy soldiers from strips of toast and dipping them in the yolk.
Mais où sont les oeufs d’antan?
Doc - the yolk running down the chin is appealing, obviously, but I think you’re cheating adding the bacon. Heck I’d like roast grasshoppers If I could have them with 2 strips of bacon.
Jennifer - ’tis so true of course. Somebody was discussing with me the other day how much we can communicate by say the single word sentence “himself” in a particular tone. I do like the way we talk.
An teach? Beadh sin, ach…
stwidgie - Without context food is just something that keeps us alive, but with context food makes us live.
Tá siad fós linn
Boiled with a dab of butter and some salt + loads of hot buttered (proper butter) toast and black tea or coffee.