Sparkly Eggs
My Grandma made scrambled eggs that sparkled.
She ate a piece of white bread with butter at most meals. If we were eating take out or at a restaurant she would let my brother and I dip our fingers straight into the individual butter packets and it eat plain. When we stayed the night at her house we got ice cream after dinner. We would stir it feverishly until our scoops were just melted enough to become “milkshakes” we could slurp down.
It was the sparkly eggs, though, that I remember best. Scrambled was the only way I took my eggs as a kid (honestly, still true as an adult). There was just something about Grandma’s eggs that were better than the rest. At some point, my parents grew frustrated with their children refusing eggs made at home and complaining about how they weren’t as good as the ones made at Grandma’s. My Dad decided that it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out his own mother’s trick to making eggs. He rightly assumed that there was an ingredient making the difference, and he tried buying all the same brands of eggs, butter, and milk as Grandma. None of it worked. Grandma’s were still better.
At the time, my palette wasn’t refined enough to offer my Dad any help. Because scrambled eggs are a rather simple dish, we eventually ran out of variables. When the secret ingredient was finally revealed, none of us should have been surprised.
Salt.
My Grandmother served scrambled eggs with more salt than any reasonable person would consider giving to children. Grandma was known for dousing every plate of food she was served with salt and pepper before she ever took a bite (much to the chagrin of her daughter-in-law). The salty sparkly eggs glimmered on our plates before they tickled our tastebuds going down.
I make the eggs now (my husband’s are also not as good as Grandma’s). After I’ve tossed in the shredded cheese, added a bit too much salt, and am standing over the stove with my rubber scraper (Grandma speak for spatula) I think about that simple way of showing love. Making food we love for people we love, no matter how simple, can be powerful. It can be healing and nourishing and a point of connection when we are feeling alone.
I’ve been in a season where busyness and change have meant that my value of hospitality has taken a bit of a backseat. You don’t have a lot of people over for dinner in the middle of a move. Things are starting to feel more settled now. I know where most of my kitchen tools are located, and I’ve recently become the proud owner of a dutch oven (drop your best recipes in the comments, please and thank you). Something about fall feels like the right time to send out some invites, make way too much food, and see if we don’t make some new food memories.
I don’t think I’ll be remembered for my sparkly eggs, but I’m giddy at the thought of someone saying Denee always made us (insert weirdly specific dish here).
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What are your favorite food memories?
Do you have a favorite dish you make for friends and family?
