I Like Eggs!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

 I like eggs! You can soft boil in the shell, or hard boil them, peel off the shell and wrap them in fried sausage for Scotch eggs. Then, there’s baked eggs wrapped in bacon and sprinkled with cheese or soft poached eggs served on hot buttered toast. Or skillet fry them over easy, or “sunny side up,” served with pancakes or waffles, fresh butter and maple syrup. Another way is to scramble them into an omelet with cheese and crumbled up sausage and serve with fresh baked buttermilk biscuits and jam.  About any way you make them I’ll eat them!

 And two eggs are better than one. I love cracking an egg and getting the surprise of a double yolk too. When I gathered them as a kid for my Grandmother, then watch in great anticipation to see a double yolk pop out of the shell into the skillet! Needless to say, I like eggs!

 Being raised a city boy by farm folks in central Kansas, Mom ensured that eggs would be a staple on the family breakfast menu. They still are, though Mom is with the Lord these many years. My bride of now over 40 years likes to fix them for me but will occasionally mix it up by going eggless for breakfast. She’ll serve fresh fruit with yogurt or maybe a bowl of oatmeal or scones with fruit as a side. On special occasions, she’ll make crepes filled with fruit or other fillings and top them with fresh whipped cream. Believe me, all of these are wonderful diversions from the routine, but the feast of my day still has eggs in it one way or another. Always has been and always will, I hope, because I like eggs.

 Now, winding the clock back a few years to January of ’76, and my early college days, I discovered a few variations to Mom’s standard menus with eggs by another mother . . . from the south. It all happened on an interim college course I was taking. The college had created a month study in the Field Work of Christian Education. Basically, it was the research and study of the inner workings of a functioning church. Destination: Florissant MO, a suburb of St. Louis MO.

 The eight of us, two guys and six girls plus our Prof, headed south from Olathe, KS. The students would be staying in various homes of church members for the duration of the course. Bobby and I were assigned to a retired couple in a nice home a few miles from the church. Upon arrival, we were shown to the guest room; a small room with dresser, double bed and private en suite. We unpacked our suitcases, were given a short home tour and returned to the living room for a warm welcoming evening meal and fellowship with this older couple.

 And what a sumptuous meal it was with posh dining room table settings, crystal dinnerware and fine silverware. It was a pretty classy setup for this small town country boy. After the fine dining, we retired to the living room and got better acquainted.

 Around 9 pm the Mrs. commented, “You’ll need to be at the church by 8 in the morning. Breakfast is at 7. Have a nice rest and we’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she grabbed her little dog and followed her husband to their bedroom. Bobby and I wandered to the guest room, tucked in and had a solid slumber.

 About 6:30 the next morning there was a knock on our door. It was the Mrs. “Gentlemen, it’s time to wake up. Breakfast will be served at 7 in the kitchen dining area. How do you like your eggs cooked?” Bobby responded, “Sunnyside up!” I paused. I’d never heard of that. But no wanting to appear ignorant, I affirmed the same. “Mine too, thanks.” And with that she shuffled off down the hallway.

 We jumped up, rinsed off, dressed, made the bed in lightning speed, grabbed our notebooks, the classroom syllabus and headed for the kitchen diner. Boy was I hungry!

 The fragrant aroma led the way to the kitchen! The breakfast nook wasn’t as spacious as the main dining room but was still warm and inviting. The small square table was already set with plates and silverware for each of us. Bobby sat opposite me with our hosts to each side of us.

 In the middle of the lacey covered table was a selection of various jams and jellies, a pitcher of orange juice and another of milk. Coffee cups were upside down on saucers at each place setting with napkins and silver to the side. On each plate was a warm slice of toast, some fresh strawberries and what appeared to be a small helping of mashed potatoes. The Mrs. served each of us our eggs fresh from the skillet and sat down. Then, the Mr. offered a prayer of thanksgiving. With that, we dug in.

 Politely, butter, jams and jellies were passed around and then drinks offered. “We also have coffee and tea if you prefer,” she offered. Bobby poured a cup of coffee. I stuck with the juice. Then I studied my plate. Everything was perfect, almost too perfect. The strawberries were a nice ruby red, the toast a golden brown and crunchy as I spread it with butter but the potatoes looked way too white. I was perplexed. “Why would you serve mashed potatoes for breakfast?” I pondered and poked them curiously with my fork while attempting to maintain a placid countenance.

 Obviously, I had lost my poker face and the Mrs. picked up on it. “Is something wrong?”

 I hesitated. She continued. “You look confused. Have you never had grits before?”

 Not being from the south, I was lost. I quipped “Grits? What’s that?”

 She explained that they were a creamy form of cornmeal, sort of like oatmeal, and could be eaten in a number of ways. After elaborating on a variety of ways to eat them and embellish them, her last comment got my attention. “A lot of people like adding butter to them and then mixing their eggs with them.” That hit the spot. I’d never been a fan of cornmeal in any form, or oatmeal, so this method of consuming them offered me an escape route without being rude to my hostess.

 She continued, “Just slide your egg over onto it, chop it up and season them to taste. You’ll enjoy them.” With that, she smiled and returned to her meal.

 I studied the elements, slid the egg over and chopped it up. She’d cooked it to perfection with that beautifully golden yolk infiltrating every part of the grits. I grabbed a strawberry and primed my palette. Then, placed my fork in the mound of mash and eagerly placed it in my mouth. The mound of mash eventually disappeared.

 What I never told my hostess, or Bobby, I’ll tell you. “The grits ruined the egg!”

 She must have had a keen sense of discernment along with her pristine sense of decorum because I never saw another serving of grits from our gracious hostess on that breakfast table the rest of our stay. And to this day, I still don’t like grits, or cornmeal in its various forms, (or cooked oatmeal) but I will eat them politely, with some reservation.  But I really like eggs!