Poached eggs are the ultimate in refinement in my eyes.
Requiring the skilled hand of a cook with perfect timing, those runny golden yolks symbolize all that is luxurious and sophisticated.
After all, one orders Eggs Benedict at a posh hotel not McDonald’s.
And they probably symbolize an adult palette because I don’t know any kids — including me when I was a kid — who like runny yolks.
I mentioned “perfectly poached eggs” as making me feel important in the prologue to my memoir because I distinctly remember at the moment they were served — by room service in a posh hotel in San Francisco — I was amazed that those timed-to-the-minute beauties could be delivered to an upper floor in such elegant condition. I thought only special recipients would get such a treat so therefore I must be pretty special.
I understand logically I’m not that special — anyone in that hotel or many others enjoys perfectly poached eggs by the thousands of dozens every day — but I still feel pretty special when I get to indulge in a poached egg.
I pondered the power of poaching on my psyche the other morning when I indulged in Eggs Benedict during a solo breakfast at a hotel on a Florida beach. The eggs were, yes, perfect (poaching is probably part of Cooking 101 at culinary school, but I am still mastering it). Despite still being dressed in my sweaty workout clothes, I sat there listening to the waves on the beach and dining on a banker’s brunch feeling supremely blessed.
Other people might feel important when they get a big, juicy rib eye steak. Could be it’s a cake with one’s name in piped frosting that says “extraordinary.” Or maybe it’s Mom’s homemade lasagna that make them feel like No. 1.
But for me, it’s poached eggs.
What’s the dish that says “you’re mighty special” to you?
Tomorrow: Breakfast secrets, including how to perfectly poach eggs.