The Egg A Day Experiment, Part 2

So, I'm reading the Sunday New York Times and Sam Sifton's writing about hash browns, but also includes a recipe for scrambled eggs with trout caviar. Which might make some people cringe. Egg on egg? I was a skeptic, too, until I had the most sublime dish at the French Laundry.

I was tagging along with a whole lot of wonderful people from Viking and we were getting VIP'd, I knew it from the very start. Our amuse was a hollowed-out shell that had been filled with the most delicate custard and a dollop of caviar. It was pure bliss on mother of pearl spoon. Nobody spoke during those first few bites, just low moans of pleasure. Then we all agreed we had never tasted anything so incredible. At least until the next course. Which I do not recall... but I remember the egg.

Today, I'm making Mother's Bistro French toast for brunch. Without eggs, pain perdure would be milk toast. Which has got to be one of the most vile things ever fed to a person in the name of trying to make them feel better. My grandmother would occasionally use it to try and figure out if we were really sick. "Maybe what you need is some milk toast," Nana said, hands on hips. That would roust us quicker than the threat of a spoonful of castor oil. Another weapon in her get well toolbox.

Back then, she could have also given us the willys by offering to serve us... yup... fish eggs. When we were kids, those were the bright pink salmon eggs my grandfather used to catch trout. They stank. It was that sense memory that stuck in my head, putting me off caviar of any kind until I got hooked on the flying fish roe used on sushi. Thank goodness I turned the corner. So I could fully appreciate the caviar on that lovely November evening in Yountville in the company of Carol and Martha and LeAnne and John T.

Get Crackin'... The Egg A Day Experiment

My grandfather, Guy McMurtry Kelly, ate an egg every day of his life. And he lived to be 97.

I'm not saying there's a connection, but maybe... I was contemplating the power of the egg while reading Michael Ruhlman's Elements of Food, one of the breeziest reference books I've ever picked up. He goes on and on about how much he loves eggs. Their power to enrich and strength, to emulsify and turn oil into mayo or even better, rouille. His words stirred something in me. A new appreciation for the humble orb.

So, what better day to start something new and egg-centric than the dawning of Spring? I know it's been done to death, but I thought I'd do a daily tribute to the egg... until it gets stale. So, LET'S GET CRACKIN'!

When I cook eggs for breakfast, it's almost always scrambled. Because it's so quick and easy. You don't have to fret about breaking the yolk. You can even -- horrors! -- nuke/scramble in the microwave if you're desperate.

But Ruhlman's prose nudged me into poaching territory. He borrows a technique from Harold McGee to poach the perfect egg, cracking it into a ramekin before sliding onto a slotted spoon where the runny stuff drips out. No more ragged edges. This worked pretty well when I made Momofuku's fan-flipping-tastic Shrimp and Grits, but I don't think I'm going to fuss with it at breakfast for myself. Especially if I'm going to gently spoon that egg onto a bowl of grits.

In the photo above, those are Alber's Quick Grits I made according to the directions on the package, adding a little extra water and then finishing them by folding in shredded Drunken Goat cheese and some shaved Parm. And lots of salt and pepper. And, finally, a few dashes of Tabasco's Habenero sauce on top.

I wonder what Papa -- who liked his one fried egg on a piece of dry toast -- would have thought about that presentation.

Would love to hear any other poaching pointers!

Something new to chew on....

This space definitely needs some serious spring cleaning!

It's sad and forlorn and empty of content and character. Because I'm working my tail off trying to make some dough that's why. Since the demise of the print P-I a year ago, my plate is heaped higher than your average all-you-can-eat Spokane buffet.

Naturally, I feel guilty about neglecting W&D and miss the great conversations I've had here over the years. So, I've hatched a plan. I'm not going to say what it is until Saturday, the first day of my favorite season. From that day forward, I pledge to post here once a day for a year. Promise!

Betting on better biscuits

So, sane people start the new year resolved to diet/exercise/quit swearing and such. Every Jan. 1, I take a vow to overcome my flour-phobia.

This year, I've been kneading, baking pies and trying to get my biscuits to raise to cathead heights. So far, I'm not even batting .500! This is typically the spot on the calendar when I throw my head back and scream into the heavens: "Why can't I bake?"

But I will not be deterred this year. I am going to keep practicing until I get it right. And, now, I have even more incentive. I tossed out a biscuit bake-off challenge on Facebook and a couple of friends bit. So, it's on.

I've been using the recipe on the can of baking powder, but I am going to experiment with a couple modifications, including using melted shortening. That's one of the secrets of the best biscuits in the world, at Bryant's in Memphis.

Once I get my biscuit technique nailed down, I'll figure out the particulars of this bake-off. And then ponder: What's best spread on them? Jam? Jelly? Honey? Sorghum, perhaps. Or sausage gravy and a couple of eggs?

Pea-con or Pea-kan?

Made my first-ever pecan pie this weekend and it was mighty tasty. Had a slice straight up, but thinking it could only be better with a scoop of ice cream or a dollop of whipped cream.

Ever since taking a pie-making class, I've been sharpening my dough-making skills. I'm getting there. Even the "mistakes" still taste pretty darned good. Like the lemon meringue that was so close.

There's a recipe in my friend Martha Foose's "Screen Doors and Sweet Tea" book that's up next: Sweet Tea pie! Doesn't that sound like a slice of summer?

What's the most unusual pie to join your recipe rotation?

Thinking about Mary Beth...

I was completely shocked to hear last week that Mary Beth Lasseter, the can-do force at the Southern Foodways Alliance, had brain surgery last week. She seems invincible. This news just sucks and, like so many others, I'm wishing her a speedy recovery.

She would be the first to marshall an effort to lend a hand. In fact, she did just that after Hurricane Katrina, when she organized a bunch of well-meaning folks from across the country who came together to help rebuild a landmark restaurant, Willie Mae's Scotch House. It turned into a monumental project. That's Mary Beth, third from the right in this photo, taken in 2006, as the rebuilding was heading into the home stretch. The Scotch House has been frying its famous chicken again for a couple of years now.

This startling drop on the roller coaster of life is beyond a Hallmark moment. Sending a card isn't enough. I feel compelled to send a care package of freeze-able, comfort food-type meals: New Orleans-style red beans and rice, mac-and-cheese, clam chowder, smoked salmon pasta and a big helping of this sentiment:

Get well soon!

My first-ever lemon meringue pie...

... was OK. Good, not great. If I were going to be my own toughest critic, I'd say the crust could have been flakier. There wasn't quite enough custard, though it was tang-a-lious.

I also used a couple more egg whites than the recipe called for and would have liked a little taller pie. But, like I said: It was my first try. So, I'll try, try again.

During this Sunday cook-a-thon, I also baked bread, made chicken tortilla soup and oysters Rockefeller, which were damn good. Used the Tom Fitzmorris recipe, which uses watercress, fennel, green onions, flat-leaf parsley. It also calls for green food coloring, but I skipped that. Did add a splash of Pernod. I could eat a dozen of those all by myself. But I shared!