Reflecting on eggies...
In the past week, I've made two batches of deviled eggs, which makes me horribly miss my mother. I think our recipe came from her mother, and I distinctly remember being a little girl and my mother teaching me how to both boil and then peel the quickly cooled eggs. As I bent over my sink and dunked my hands into the eggy water, I remembered the deftness her hands had, and now that mine do.
A lot of my friends cannot peel eggs for the life of them. Hunny and Kayrin are two that come to mind. So if I need to bring eggs to a party, they'll boil and cool them, but I'll peel them when I get there.
The act of peeling eggs seems mildly meditative, trying to smoothly break the membrane to pull the shell away from the hardened white. Beat the egg three-ish times on the well of the sink, then slowly peel away parts of the shell until the membrane finally lets loose.
Or it doesn't, and you're left cussing with a rubbery egg that you have to get the yolk out of anyway. So you eat the rubbery egg deviled with the leftover filling since you surely can't serve these to guests, so you might as well eat it.
A new coworker of mine was amused that I had an egg plate, and then I told him I not only have the ceramic one, but also another one, plus a Tupperware transporting container. Clearly, deviled eggs are family srs bzns. Because of the rubbery egg scenario, I didn't have enough for the ceramic plate, which holds an impressive 20-22 eggs! I decided to break out the transporting container, especially since we would be gallivanting to a family picnic/pig roast thing with most of Fidget's family.
After dusting it off, I looked at it. Easily from the '70s, this thing is what Tupperware is known for. I made the remainder of the eggs, and placing them in the container, I was transported back to being around six years old, as Momma arranged the eggs in the same container for yet another function. Was it an union function? A baby shower? A regular potluck on the floor? It didn't matter, but she still had to make her eggs. And that container would go with her to downtown Baltimore with her last name blazoned across the top and the bottom so folks would not steal it.
I found it oddly appropriate that I would take this container to Fidget's family function, seeing as her last name (which is half of mine) would properly distinguish my Tupperware from the rest of the plentiful Fidget clan. I artfully arranged the container, took a picture, then sent it to my father, whom lamented he wanted some, but also remembered the container. Momma had sent it to me about two years ago when she stated her egg-making days were over and it was my task to pass on the tradition.
As I finally peeled the eggs and stowed them away, I thought of my and Fidget's future children. I would sit my daughter (and maybe my son?) on a step stool and teach her to peel, being sure to spin the egg first to make sure the yolk was solid. Then she would beat the egg against the sink, slowly and with purpose. Using her itty bitty kid nails, she'd peel off some of the shell. I'd show her the membrane, how to deftly separate the light membrane from the white and carefully use to to follow the egg and remove the shells. She'll probably destroy quite a few, as I'm sure I did, but she'll learn the trade.
We'll pop the yolks into a bowl after carefully slicing the eggs in half. (We'll do this "stupidly" by cutting them in our palms with a knife, but maybe we'll use a butter knife to do it.) The halved whites will sit on a paper towel-lined plate to get all of the moisture out, while we'll assemble what's needed for the filling. After chopping the yolks up with the butter knife, we'll throw in our family's ingredients, randomly sticking our fingers in to see if it needs more salt or is still too dry. Then we'll quickly use a metal spoon to restuff the eggs, sprinkling them with paprika after we place them in whatever dish we deemed appropriate.
The irony is that Fidget doesn't like deviled eggs, but he likes that I bring them to functions. And I'll teach his children how to boil and peel the eggs, even if he won't eat them. And eventually, maybe I'll pass on all of my egg paraphernalia to my daughter (or son? They can fight over it!) and my egg-making days will be over...
... but that Hurt tradition will live on, and they'll dazzle their friends with the deftness with which they can peel eggs.
A lot of my friends cannot peel eggs for the life of them. Hunny and Kayrin are two that come to mind. So if I need to bring eggs to a party, they'll boil and cool them, but I'll peel them when I get there.
The act of peeling eggs seems mildly meditative, trying to smoothly break the membrane to pull the shell away from the hardened white. Beat the egg three-ish times on the well of the sink, then slowly peel away parts of the shell until the membrane finally lets loose.
Or it doesn't, and you're left cussing with a rubbery egg that you have to get the yolk out of anyway. So you eat the rubbery egg deviled with the leftover filling since you surely can't serve these to guests, so you might as well eat it.
A new coworker of mine was amused that I had an egg plate, and then I told him I not only have the ceramic one, but also another one, plus a Tupperware transporting container. Clearly, deviled eggs are family srs bzns. Because of the rubbery egg scenario, I didn't have enough for the ceramic plate, which holds an impressive 20-22 eggs! I decided to break out the transporting container, especially since we would be gallivanting to a family picnic/pig roast thing with most of Fidget's family.
After dusting it off, I looked at it. Easily from the '70s, this thing is what Tupperware is known for. I made the remainder of the eggs, and placing them in the container, I was transported back to being around six years old, as Momma arranged the eggs in the same container for yet another function. Was it an union function? A baby shower? A regular potluck on the floor? It didn't matter, but she still had to make her eggs. And that container would go with her to downtown Baltimore with her last name blazoned across the top and the bottom so folks would not steal it.
I found it oddly appropriate that I would take this container to Fidget's family function, seeing as her last name (which is half of mine) would properly distinguish my Tupperware from the rest of the plentiful Fidget clan. I artfully arranged the container, took a picture, then sent it to my father, whom lamented he wanted some, but also remembered the container. Momma had sent it to me about two years ago when she stated her egg-making days were over and it was my task to pass on the tradition.
As I finally peeled the eggs and stowed them away, I thought of my and Fidget's future children. I would sit my daughter (and maybe my son?) on a step stool and teach her to peel, being sure to spin the egg first to make sure the yolk was solid. Then she would beat the egg against the sink, slowly and with purpose. Using her itty bitty kid nails, she'd peel off some of the shell. I'd show her the membrane, how to deftly separate the light membrane from the white and carefully use to to follow the egg and remove the shells. She'll probably destroy quite a few, as I'm sure I did, but she'll learn the trade.
We'll pop the yolks into a bowl after carefully slicing the eggs in half. (We'll do this "stupidly" by cutting them in our palms with a knife, but maybe we'll use a butter knife to do it.) The halved whites will sit on a paper towel-lined plate to get all of the moisture out, while we'll assemble what's needed for the filling. After chopping the yolks up with the butter knife, we'll throw in our family's ingredients, randomly sticking our fingers in to see if it needs more salt or is still too dry. Then we'll quickly use a metal spoon to restuff the eggs, sprinkling them with paprika after we place them in whatever dish we deemed appropriate.
The irony is that Fidget doesn't like deviled eggs, but he likes that I bring them to functions. And I'll teach his children how to boil and peel the eggs, even if he won't eat them. And eventually, maybe I'll pass on all of my egg paraphernalia to my daughter (or son? They can fight over it!) and my egg-making days will be over...
... but that Hurt tradition will live on, and they'll dazzle their friends with the deftness with which they can peel eggs.