Eggs

I love to eat eggs for breakfast. Whether fried in bacon fat or olive oil, poached in water with a hint of white wine or scrambled until fluffy, they are the most satisfying of morning meals to me.  Even a quickly made quiche is more desirable than a hastily made bowl of cereal.

I keep an old non-stick skillet on hand for poaching eggs.  It’s long since surpassed its usefulness as a fry pan because the surface is scratched, but when half filled with simmering water it makes a perfect bath for my breakfast-to-be.  The pan is flat-bottomed, straight of side and has a nice vented glass lid so I can keep an eye on my huevos while they poach in about an inch and a half of water with a splash of white wine. The wife bought me silicone egg rings last year for my birthday and they work perfectly to keep the wisps of egg white constrained until they set up.  A few minutes in the simmering bath, remove the rings, gently coddle the eggs with the perfect slotted spoon to drain well and dash with smokehouse pepper and salt.
With a side of toast one can dig in and swab up the yolky leavings or, better yet, forgo the toast and savor the wondrous pleasure of a mouthful of egg eaten whole while leaving the plate nearly as clean as it began.