When the craving for eggs benedict comes, there’s no resisting it…
Anyone who really knows me knows I love eggs. I could eat eggs every day and with every meal in some form or another. Eggs have always been a staple of my diet. Whether scrambled, fried, over easy, hard boiled, soft boiled, poached, etc., I can’t remember a single time when I turned down, or was disappointed with, the opportunity to eat eggs. My love for eggs comes from growing up on a farm in southern Kentucky where we raised chickens, geese, and sometimes ducks, for both eggs and meat. Not only did we raise them, we also grew attached to them as they were an integral part of our farm family. As part of our morning chores before school, I remember raiding the chicken coops where we would gather fresh, warm, and colorful eggs. These were not the white and perfectly sized eggs that most people are familiar with. These were real deal, honest-to-goodness, farm eggs. Rarely white, they came in a variety of brown earth-tones, oftentimes speckled, and typically had remnants of Mother Nature’s residue still on them. This daily and delicate egg-gathering ritual wasn’t without its hazards as there was inevitably a couple of young, strutting roosters that thought they’d come of age on any given morning and would try to flog us out of the coop. Then there were the hens… while most of the them were cooperative during our egg-swiping rounds, there was the constant threat from some of the cutest and seemingly most innocent-looking hens that would let you get your hand right up and into their nests while pretending to be asleep, before launching a vicious surprise attack at it as if your hand was an egg-eating snake. Those hens were the ones I secretly hoped would soon find their way onto the darkly stained tree stump in front of the barn where the thin end of Señor Hatchet patiently awaited his next victim. To this day, the eggs we harvested back on the farm when I was a boy, are far and away the best eggs I’ve ever eaten. Simply put, nothing beats the rich flavor of fresh farm eggs.
A couple of weeks ago, while in the middle of poaching upwards of 75 eggs for brunch and holding them in ice water while waiting for service, a kitchen passerby noticed the large plastic lexan filled with dozens of jellyfish-like, white globs suspended beneath the icy surface and asked, “What’s that mess?” After I told him they were poached eggs for brunch, he proceeded to tell me how he didn’t like eggs, had never liked them, and didn’t understand how people could eat them. A little surprised initially, I immediately went on the offensive on behalf of eggs explaining their flexibility of uses and how I could and would eat them anytime and anyplace. Shortly after he left the kitchen, I wondered why I felt so compelled to defend the egg with such vigor. I felt offended, as if he had said something about a member of my family. I also felt sorry for him because I couldn’t imagine life without the constant and comforting presence of eggs. Clearly, he had no idea what he was missing out on, and I was certain he had never experienced the irresistible, silky-smooth, golden yolk of a perfectly poached egg intermixed with rich, handmade, buttery-lemony hollandaise sauce, complete with a tinge of cayenne, resting tantalizingly atop a warm, salty, sweet, slice of Canadian bacon and toasted English muffin. Clearly, he had no idea…
After spending the last year in culinary school where we used eggs practically every day and in everything from one end of the culinary spectrum to the other, such as sauces, appetizers, salads, quiche, main entrées, doughs, crusts, custards, desserts, etc., I came away with a renewed appreciation for them. With that said, there comes a time, about twice a year, when I get an intense craving for eggs benedict. It’s probably a good thing it only happens twice a year because my cholesterol could stand to be lowered some as it is. I’ve always enjoyed eggs benedict, but after learning to make real hollandaise in culinary school, I have a whole new level of respect for the dish. Now that I can make it myself, I’m hesitant to order it at some restaurants for fear of being disappointed. It’s not the easiest or quickest thing to make, but it’s well worth the time and effort when done right. For the past few days I’ve been craving it and it finally came to a head this morning when I opened the refrigerator and realized I was out of milk and that my normal, convenient options for breakfast were no longer options. What I did have plenty of though… was eggs. Presented with the opportunity to practice my hollandaise-making skills while at the same time satisfying my craving for eggs benedict, how could I resist? Several hundred, delicious calories later, my craving was satisfied. At least for the moment, because I’m certain that just like clockwork and within a few months time, my craving for eggs benedict will return, and when that happens well, there’s simply no resisting the power of the almighty egg.
James
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