Eggs Must Be Hot
Laurea made scrambled eggs this morning, which is technically my domain, but I’m not complaining. She got super jazzed about a recipe in NYT Cooking that promised consistently perfect eggs and whipped up half a dozen first thing (note: they were, in fact, perfect, in a way that really threatened my sense of eggy dominance in the kitchen). We ate them in perfect golden mounds on toast, which is a great way to start a Tuesday, in my opinion.
Kina has gone through several egg phases in her short life, feasting on them for weeks at a time before dismissing them for long stretches. Each love affair with our scrambly friends is characterized by a particular niche obsession. In one month, she might demand a handful of Monterey Jack cheese be tossed in seconds before the eggs fully set. In another, she might ask that her eggs be showered with microplaned Parmesan. Lately, the demand is simpler—her eggs must be served piping hot.
At the table, seconds after the eggs land, she shovels them into her open mouth, expelling air and steam as she chews, gently burning the tip of her tongue. She foofs out little puffs of breath as the eggs approach her lips, closing her eyes in reverie and pain. Then, just seconds later, she deems the entire plate “too cold” and shoves it gently in the direction of her mother. The thrill is gone.
Kina gets her preference for very hot food from me, I think; the foofing thing she does while she eats hot eggs is something I’ve seen my entire extended family do. I have never really understood whether it’s because we derive more gustatory pleasure from eating food that is still in the midst of vaporizing or because we’re afraid somebody else is going to eat everything on the platter if we don’t get to it first. I suspect both are in play here, but I really do think some food tastes better when it’s unbearably hot—noodles, for example, and hot dogs.
I hadn’t really considered whether eggs were in that category until I watched Kina apply her real-time air-cooling skills to this morning’s breakfast. I think I trust her judgement. Maybe I should try to sneak a batch in now that Laurea is the queen of scrambled eggs, singe my tongue in the family tradition. Might toss in a little cheese while I’m at it.
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