Suddenly ravenous—and the Spanish egg

 

My Spanish egg--note the lacy edges.

After missing most of December and its good holiday food, I suddenly find myself ravenously hungry. For weeks, I could barely stand the thought of food and spent long hours trying to come up with dishes that intrigued me. Nothing worked. Now everything sounds good.

Hunger began to return in the hospital. I remember telling a nurse at three a.m., as she drew blood, that I knew what I wanted for breakfast—Grape Nuts Flakes, a banana, and honey. She laughed, but that’s what I had. Now at night I go to sleep thinking about breakfast.

Yesterday on the internet I found directions for a Spanish egg. It was a fried egg cooked the way my mom used to do it, with lacy edges browned crisp and good, still soft in the middle. I just never knew it was called Spanish, nor did I know how to achieve those lacy edges. My tried-and-true method for eggs is soft-poached on a slice of heavily buttered rye bread topped with some sliced sharp cheddar. I thought that would work with the Spanish egg, so I tried it.

When most of us fry an egg, we put a minimal amount of oil or butter in the pan. For a Spanish egg, you float the egg in a generous glop of oil—I used olive oil.  Slip the egg into a ramekin, so it will slide nicely into the pan. Heat the oil but don’t let it smoke. Slide the egg gently into the hot oil and spoon a bit of oil over the top. Now watch it for a minute and a half or so—until those edges turn golden and the yolk sort of puffs up (that’s the theory—the yolk on mine never did puff up). I slid it onto my cheese and toast, cut it all up, and smooshed the yolk around, and—voila! Breakfast!

It was good. Worth the effort? Probably. And I figure I’ll get better at the technique if I keep trying. But an egg every day, snacks in the middle of the day, a hearty dinner—something’s got to give. I’m not sure if I lost weight or not but at this rate I’ll be a a tub.

Last night we ordered Italian dinners, and I had a veal dish with teeninesy pieces of artichoke scattered throughout and a wonderful lemon-butter sauce. I ate every bite of the meat and all the accompanying pasta—usually I ignore those sides of pasta, but this we so good. Tonight I think I’ll do my first real cooking. I’ve been meaning to make a quiche from the New Year’s ham, and this cold rainy day seems just right. I got out the recipe to re-read—and it calls for bacon, not ham. I figure I’ll use both and make it that much heartier.

It’s a joy to be reading and enjoying recipe, eating and tasting good food, getting back to cooking. Life seems good, and I’m on the mend.

As for the Spanish egg, the picture doesn’t do it justice. Look it up on the net for a better picture.