The Egg and I

Eggs and I started off amicably enough.  As a young girl, my grandfather often made Sunday breakfast for me.  Soft-boiled eggs, served in a heavy, old ceramic cup shaped like Humpty Dumpty.  Humpty sported a red bow tie.  Humpty had panache. 

Then one day it all went wrong with the introduction of scrambled eggs.  What were the white crumbly bits?  Extra whites, I was told.  Eat up.  More like throw up.  They were brains.  Brains. After that eggs and I parted company for a couple of decades.

In retrospect I didn't miss out on anything.  The eggs of my youth had pale tasteless yolks and water-thin cloudy whites.  Trucked across the state from factory farms to grocery chains, they were weeks old when we bought them. 

Fast forward to here and now.  Have you noticed signs advertising fresh eggs popping up everywhere?  Time it right, and your eggs will still be warm from the hen house.  Crack one open and a deep orange yolk sits high atop thick, clear whites.  The yolks taste rich and deep.

I'm still not going to eat brains, but eggs are again my favorite breakfast. 
Saturday, if you're on Bainbridge Island, visit the Farmers' Market for fresh spring greens (like baby arugula) and eggs, then head down to Hitchcock deli for the world's best smoked bacon.  If you have time, drive over to Pane D'amore for a loaf of fresh-baked hearth bread, and go two doors down to the Hey Day farm store for fresh cow's milk cheese.  They've got eggs, too.  Really, really good eggs. 

With booty in your pantry, ten minutes is all you need on Sunday morning to throw together a spectacular simple breakfast.  Spread a slab of toast with soft cheese.  Cook a few slices of bacon and put them on the toast with a pile of greens.  Fry an egg in butter, or the leftover bacon fat, and add it to the pile.  Sprinkle with sea salt and pepper.  A drizzle of hot sauce is nice, too.

More, please.