Egg On My Face

What could be more delicious or simple than a fried egg? There is so much about the egg that I could say (the history of eggs, uses in different cultures, health benefits, recipes, etc.) but won’t. There are tons of websites devoted to the creation of the perfect fried egg including debates on cast iron versus non-stick skillets. There are sites encouraging the incorporation of the fried egg into everything from bowls of rice and/or veggies to plopping it down on top of ciabatta bread and tomatoes then sprinkling with feta cheese and arugula, thus elevating the humble fried egg to a snazzy dinner item. And don’t get me started on the various methods of frying with absurd names like “animal style” and “press down.” One ill-informed person even suggested that the perfect fried egg wouldn’t have crispy brown edges. Seriously? That’s the best part.

I guess I’m old school and harken back to the days when the toughest decision one had to make about fried eggs was whether or not you wanted the yolk hard or soft. This simplicity of thought is where my mind drifted as I wrote the scene in my novel, The Secrets of Dr. John Welles, when midwife Collie Mercer makes a celebratory breakfast for the Welles family in honor of the new baby she has just delivered.

The Welleses lived on a farm, so naturally eggs were part of their diet in some fashion on a daily basis. I imagine nothing fancier than scrambled or fried eggs ever appeared on the Welles children’s plates, not even an omelet. But I also know that the eggs were prepared with love. And while a wide variety of foods may not have been an option, no boxes of colorful cereal or flaky croissants, the children were no doubt raised with an appreciation for an abundance of good food prepared simply.

There isn’t an exact recipe involved with this post. In many ways, the preparation of a great fried egg is a combination of common knowledge and simple logic with a dash of familial preference for good measure.

The Perfect Fried Egg

Fresh eggs – we obtain ours from a neighbor down the street


Salt & pepper

Cast Iron Skillet – our preference at the Gibson household

Pre-heat a cast iron skillet on the stove. Melt about ½ T of butter in the pan per egg until it bubbles. Don’t brown or burn the butter. Crack your eggs directly into the skillet, spacing evenly around the circumference depending on the quantity of eggs and size of the skillet.

Break the yolks at this point if you want them hard. Allow the underside to set up before flipping them to continue cooking on the other side. They are done when the yolk it set and the edges reach desired crispness.

Or, when the underside of the white turns opaque, you can pour a little water in the pan and cover to steam your eggs to doneness. This is usually done for a soft yolk. No flipping required.

Season the cooked eggs with salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot and enjoy!

The Best Part of Waking Up – a Sunday Morning Reminiscence

Henry gives the corner of my eye sandpaper-tongue kisses. I chuckle, trying not to move. This is the signal for Aria to roll over off her back, stretch, and groan. Then she huffs morning collie breath in my face. She knows I’m awake.  I stretch and groan; an exercise made easier by the sunlight streaming through my blinds. All fifteen parakeets begin chorusing their demand to have the cage covers removed. I place both feet on the warm spot of carpet Aria has just vacated.

“Good morning, everyone.”


Notice the blown out elbows.

I don the world’s rattiest bathrobe and perform morning rituals. The robe wasn’t always so shabby. About twenty years ago, it was the plushest robe in blue and pink plaid flannel over thick white terrycloth. It was part of Victoria’s Secret’s Authentic Country Cotton collection; a Christmas present from Will. This robe and I have seen a lot together, but we’re keeping those secrets.

When Joshua was little, he used to wrap himself in it, tie the sash, and trail a good three feet of it on the floor. Except for the feminine color, he looked like a prince in royal robes. He would hold the collar in both little hands and say, “It smells like you, Mommy.” When he puts it on now, the hem ends just below his knees.


Bath Time

I head to the kitchen to make tea.  Henry and Aria sneak back to the bedroom to recapture the fading essence of Sunday morning.  She curls up in the corner while he walks around her head and shoulders.  After a few nuzzles, Henry grooms Aria’s paws and snout and she licks behind his ears.  I believe she gets the better end of the deal as Henry looks like he’s been drowned after a slaking by her tongue.

Finally, I’m in possession of a tub of tea. We’re Americans; we don’t do anything small including our teacups. Will purchased honey sold on the side of the road in Hartville. It’s in a small Ball jar with a masking tape price tag. This makes it taste homier for some reason. The flavor is between clover and dessert wine and compliments my tea perfectly. Gotta love roadside stands; the best pies, corn, eggs, and honey can be found there.


$8 for a jar of liquid sunshine – quite a deal.

Tea in hand, animals in tow, I head for the living room to read the Bible. That’s when I hear the familiar metallic creaking of Joshua’s loft bed. He’s coming down the ladder. I quickly intercept him in the hallway and guide him to my room. A morning nap in my bed will buy me some more quite time.

As for Will, he’s dead to the world in the back bedroom, banished due to ungodly snoring. The bed is a brand new, high-quality mattress from The Original Mattress Factory, so keep your scorn in check. It’s not as if I exiled him to the garage. Besides, he’s concluded that it’s easier to sleep a few nights alone than not at all with my elbow constantly in his side.

So, I’m guaranteed an hour of peace and solitude. I really could use more sleep, but I hate to waste the morning. Who knows what miracles, spectacular or ordinary, may take place? Think I’ll stay awake and find out.

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