Easy-to-Peel Eggs

Honestly, this is fool-proof; it doesn’t matter if the eggs are white or brown, cold or room temperature. Simply use a lidded saucepan, place eggs in a single layer, and add enough water to cover them by about a third. I use a steamer rack so I can just lift the eggs in and out. Cover the pan, and bring the water to a vigorous boil. I’ve found that for six eggs in a 2-quart pot,  for 5 minutes will give you firm whites and a warm runny yolk, 8 mins. a soft, firm yolk. I usually put the pot  with the eggs and water on the stove, turn the heat on high, and set the timer for 10 minutes; perfect results, every time. You can drain the eggs, cool in tap water, and  peel. You can keep them in a covered container for a couple of days before using.

Egg in a Basket

Use sturdy bread and a metal cutter. Eat the hole; there’s nothing else you can do with it. Lightly toast bread on both sides in a hot buttered pan, add a pat of butter in the center, and crack an egg into it. Cover to cook through. If you’re feeding several people, you can make these on a cookie sheet in a hot oven. Keep the seasonings simple: salt and black pepper with a dash of smoky paprika.

Classic Southern Giblet Gravy

You must use a quart of the clearest, richest broth thickened while hot with a thin paste of corn starch and water. To this add the yolks of at least two eggs which have been creamed with a pat of butter. Then add four more chopped hard boiled eggs (yolks and whites), the cooked and chopped livers and gizzards of the turkey as well as the hen you used for your stock (about two cups), but not the meat from the necks, which are superfluous and troublesome. I often add a half cup of chopped, sauteed celery for texture. Salt to taste and season with white pepper. Parsley is pretty, and a smidgen of thyme is a nice accent.

Pickled Eggs

Any time you enter a beer joint or beer store in the South, you’re likely to find a big jar of pickled eggs on the counter next to the beef jerky, the pieds de porc à l’écarlate and all the other Bubbas that belly up to the Southern sideboard, but in this case, pickled eggs, like Prince Hal, are tainted by their dissolute company. This bar sinister is itself a shame, but pickled eggs—which, if you think about it, are a rather delicate dish in the first place—have also been brutalized by mass marketing. Those over-boiled, nitrate-infused super-ball eggs in roadhouse jars are the ovulaltory equivalent of mealy winter tomatoes, and while witnesses will gleefully attest that I have eaten my share of them, I’ll be the first to admit that they’re just not good food.

On the other hand, properly pickled eggs are a treat; they’re a great side with cold meats, poultry or game, and good in tuna, chicken or over vegetable salads. One recipe I have from a Junior League-type cookbook published in the 1930’s claims that they’re “ever so good chopped into hash, and provide just the right touch bedded on greens with a dressing of sharp, spicy goodness.” Craig Claiborne included a pickled egg recipe in his New York Times Cookbook (wouldn’t he just?), and Rita Mae Brown, one of our best Southern writers, employs this dish as a culinary bone of contention between two cantankerous sisters in her riotous novel, Six of One. The white of a pickled egg should be firm, not tough or rubbery, and the yolk should be moist and almost creamy, not crumbly and dry. They should also have a light, balanced tangy/sweet flavor as a platform for other seasonings: I like a couple of slit hot peppers, a slice or two of garlic and a bay leaf to flavor mine, but dill, caraway or even cloves figure among other attractive possibilities.

For pickling, boil a dozen medium eggs until just done; you can easily fit a dozen large in a quart jar. Then stuff the (peeled) eggs into a glass jar along with whatever accompaniments you like (jalapenos, onion, garlic, bay leaf, etc.). In order to find out how much liquid you need to cover the eggs, fill the jar with a mixture of white vinegar and water (4:1) just to the top; make sure to get rid of air bubbles by tapping or tipping the jar. Add a tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of sugar and a tablespoon of pickling spices to the liquid. If you miss the barroom rose, use beet juice for color. Heat to almost boiling then back over the eggs; if there’s not quite enough liquid to cover them entirely, add a little more warm water. Then tilt again and seal the jar. Store for at least a week before eating.

 

Penny Eggs

Anyone who bellies up to a Bible-Belt bar on a Sunday morning drinks in the certainty that their stool is just as comfortable and congenial as any pew. Bartenders who work Sunday mornings know their customers well, and more often than not the harkening faces at the rail know a thing or so about the bartenders, too. They’re always telling on one another, and if it’s a really friendly bar, they’ll do it aloud, especially when not that many people are in the bar and the music’s low. It’s a special sort of bonding ritual that you just won’t find along an aisle.

Jake and I enjoy basking in these secular exchanges. We manage to steer clear of most petty imbroglios; oh, we’ll put our two cents in on something especially outrageous (or at least I will), but most of the time we just talk to each other. Jake grew up in upstate New York; I grew up in north Mississippi. He was probably pulling my leg when he told me that his parents once sent money to a charitable organization whose mission was to improve the lot of ignorant, parasite-infested Southerners, but I bristled anyway and reminded him that they did that once already (with taxes) and a less than charitable intent towards the majority of my ancestors. He in turn reminded me that his folks came over on the Concorde and that his parents don’t pay taxes. At this point, I should have bolted, but bearing in mind Faulkner’s mandate of love despite faults, we both endured and have come to learn that we have much in common. Take Vienna sausages, for instance, an iconic Southern nosh if there ever was one. Never in a million years would I have thought Jake knew of (much less ate them) as a child. But one Sunday morning at the bar he told me about penny eggs.

“My mother,” he said, “would take Vienna sausages, slice them crossways and put them in our scrambled eggs. She called them penny eggs.”

Suddenly I could hear a woman’s voice from a kitchen down a hall. “Do you want penny eggs for breakfast?” Or: “Hurry up or you’re going to miss your penny eggs.” What child would not be stirred? Pudgy little fists would begin to rub sleepy eyes, and soon the breakfast table would be surrounded by mouths eager for spoonfuls of eggs strewn with penny-like slices of mild sausage. If I live for another 800 years, I don’t think I’ll ever feel anything as warm or hear anything as charming as that childhood memory coming to light in a dingy, musty bar on a rainy Sunday morning. Of course, he found nothing endearing about my Vienna memories, which involved fishing for crappie on Grenada Lake and untangling barbed wire from MDOT bush hogs that had run over an old fence. “You were sweating,” he said. “They were like sodium suppositories.” After reminding him that we ate them, I tried to interject some romance into my remembrances.

“Jake,” I said. “Imagine that you’re in a leaky aluminum boat with a stuttering motor in the backwaters of a north Mississippi reservoir. It’s an early Saturday morning and sunny. You’re eight, fishing with a couple who have been married for forty years. You have your little baseball cap on, but your nose gets burned anyway. You catch one fish, a little one, to their twenty big ones. You get to drink all the Cokes you want, and pee off the side of the skiff. And for lunch, well before noon, you get saltines, a big piece of rat cheese, sardines if you want them, and a can of Vienna sausages.”

“Surrounded by venomous snakes no doubt,” he said. “And please tell me you didn’t eat the fish.” At this, I realized romanticizing barbed wire foul-ups on bush hogs was useless. I keep Viennas on hand, but Jake, despite his admission of a childhood fondness for them, has consigned them to what the calls the redneck corner of the cupboard, where he puts my sardines, salmon and saltines. He lets me keep my red-rind cheddar in the fridge, bless his little heart.

 

Brennan’s Creamed Eggs Chartres

Here’s a great recipe for brunch or for a light buffet any time of the day. I always add a tablespoon of freshly-grated Parmesan to the egg mixture.

1 cup finely chopped/shredded white onions
1/3 cup butter
1/4 cup flour
2 cups of milk
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
4 hard boiled eggs, peeled and sliced (reserving 4 center slices for garnishment)
2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon of paprika

In a large skillet sauté onion in butter until clear/transparent; stir in flour and cook slowly 3-5 minutes more. Blend in milk and egg yolk until smooth. Add salt and pepper. Cook, stirring constantly, 8-10 minutes longer or until sauce thickens. Remove from heat, add sliced eggs and mix lightly. Spoon into 2 8-oz casseroles and sprinkle with paprika and Parmesan cheese mixed together. Bake at 350 degrees until bubbling. Garnish with eggs slices; serves two. This is a wonderful breakfast or brunch recipe, and can be served in a casserole with toasted French bread slices.

Grits and Eggs

For six servings, cook one cup grits in one and a half cups water and one cup whole milk with a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon of butter. Once done, add a half cup of shredded cheese (I like Edam or Gouda). Pour into an oiled casserole or skillet to cool until just warm. Make six depressions in grits about two inches apart with the back of an oiled spoon and break an egg into each hole. Sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper and bake at 350 uncovered until eggs are how you like them (about ten minutes for hard-cooked).