(with apologies for the gap in chapters…)
First, check your guest list: How many will be brunching with you today? The calculations start with one (you) and go up to 12 semi-hungry folks, six mostly hungry people, or four would-be lumberjacks. Then, check your fridge: You do have a dozen eggs, right?
Next, clear a space on the counter, or, if you’re Felix Unger, on a large flat cutting board.
Grab a loaf of bread. Round-top is better if you have a round frying pan; otherwise,
A lumberjack gets three of these. Other guests, two or one. Poke away until you have enough slices to accommodate their appetites, one egg per slice.
Heat up some cooking oil in a large frying pan. Add the bread only when the oil is hot enough to make a drop of water dance. Otherwise, the bread will soak up the oil, which will cause a host of problems. Let the bread sizzle for about 30 seconds.
Now, with extreme care, crack one egg per slice and center the yolk into the hole (aha!), letting the white spread over the rest of the bread. Try to get all of them cooking as quickly as possible so they can be turned together.
As soon as the white is opaque, flip the concoction with a spatula, being careful not to break the yolk. Or breaking it, if that’s your preference.
Keep an eye on the eggs; you’ll know when they reach your preferred doneness.
Salt and pepper to taste.
Of course, Uncle Richard occasionally added ketchup. That’s OK; this is his recipe/
As soon as any of us hit 10 or so, Mom would let us do some basic cooking, as long as she or Richard were supervising. Egginnabread — it has dozens of names and hundreds of variations, but this is how we made it and what we called it — egginnabread was the first foodstuff that challenged us to know about oil temperatures, cracking eggs, flipping foods. The index finger thing added flourish that I use to this day. For silliness, I usually add sound effects to each jab, boops or explosions to brighten the morning.
Richard taught us the secret of pancakes — the popped bubbles that call out “Flip the flapjacks.” And the real magic — fry up some bacon first, leave the grease in the pan, crumble a couple of the well-done pieces back into the grease, and ladle in the batter.
He taught us cookin’ with love.
I later tweaked a recipe he taught me, as a defense against a proselytizing babysitter.
Creamed chipped beef on buttered toast. SOS, to Greatest Generation members and their kin. Entree and dessert in one, to this Baby Boomer.
I recently had learned that food coloring adds no flavor. Who knew? If it was blue, it had to taste disgusting, right? Nope. Same as always; just blue.
Three or four drops of cyan into that white floury goop, and EP left me alone all night. No stern warnings from the Book of Revelation.
Jesus apparently forgave me.
Thank you, Jesus.
Thank you, Richard.
… to be continued
