I’ve moved and I’ve settled, now, in the West Village, just two blocks shy of the Hudson River Park. I ran there this morning, from the Christopher Street Pier up past the Chelsea Piers where the Hudson River Park reemerges, willow brushing my face and that Hudson River Breeze tantalizing my eyeballs so much I don’t know whether or not to cry out of irritation or sheer joy. Never the less, I’ve officially traded in my gym membership for the opportunity to run side-by-side with young mothers double-fisting strollers, their babies decked out in that new taupe stocking from Baby Gap.
In my apartment, I have my own room again. Looking out my window, directly in front of me I can look into the rooms of a rehabilitation center whereas if I were to turn my head just twenty degrees to the left, I can see the entire cityscape of Midtown, the lower half of it shrouded in trees and vine-wrapped brownstone. Cobblestone streets. I can actually hear myself breathing; I’ve got this headache that came out of my ten hours of quiet sleep on a real mattress instead of one made of air, I’m wondering if it’s from something bad that I’ve eaten but then I remind myself that I’ve been cooking for myself ever since I’ve moved in. Maybe it’s the readjustment to the calm, the un-conditioning of what was once conditional and expected, the lack of privacy, dollar dumplings, crumbs and scraps of paper peeled off of beer bottles by wasted hands and thrown onto the floor. The loudest sound I’ve heard has been the airplanes passing above. The occasional speeding car. And now, finally, I’m sitting down comfortably in my chinos- something I’ve figured would’ve never been the case considering I always thought my thighs looked thicker when wrapped in Khaki- the Sun has begun to set to the opposite of which way my window is looking. As a result, the cinderblock of the building in front of me is radiant, and the leaves down below are echoing prematurely the signs of the Fall. The breeze too.
It’s always been my favorite season, if only because it’s one away from being Winter, which I always figured would be my favorite season…up until the allure of the Holidays wears off and I’m wondering why it’s still January in February.
Once I open my door though, the guy I’m living with is cooking, burning his eggs.
It’s not that hard to do really, I dunno why people figure that if they’ve managed to cook their eggs into brown, little nuggets… they’ve done the job… let alone the idea of adding milk or olive oil to the mixture in an attempt to add ‘fluff’ or ‘flavor’.
Get the hell out of here.
Listen- I love eggs. They’re practically serendipitous; the white and the yolk all in one thin little shell, so cheap, so accessible.
But it’s gotta be done the right way.
For me, it’s as much about the simplicity of the scrambled egg as it is how much time you put into it. You really gotta work with it if you want it to be good- let it rest and don’t do your job, you f*** it up, and fail to impress the mister or the misses waiting for that sexy, salivating, semblance of mouth-watering good time in bed before they gotta get dressed and strut their way towards their laptop and some leftover Lo Mein cooling in their freezer.
Here’s what you do:
2 eggs, butter, salt.
Fix up your stove to a low heat and in a small pot, add in a couple tablespoons of butter and two eggs. Don’t whisk it. Don’t churn it. Don’t let it marinate in bacon grease. Just two cracked eggs, and butter, in a pot. No spices. Let the butter do it’s job, yeah?
Put it on the heat.
Then stir the hell out of it with a spatula. It’s kinda like a risotto in that you can’t ever stop playing around with it. Once the heat’s gotten to the egg and it shows to get a little bit thicker, back off a bit of the stirring and transition your movements to a tender sort of folding.
The moment you catch some chucks starting to form in the egg, take it off the heat. The heat’s already locked in the pot, so taking it off the stove doesn’t stop the egg from cooking, entirely. Keep folding and folding, eventually placing it back on the stove for a final round of intense heat, then taking it off the stove for a final take. Maybe adding some creme fraîche, to take off the immediate heat.
The goal here is to take it out of the pot and serve it while it’s still got that velvety texture; it’s supposed to look moist and it’s supposed to look clumpy and it’s supposed to look delicious.
That’s when you can add the salt. Just a pinch of it.
If you wanted to kick back from the eggy taste, chives work magnificently as well. It makes em’ sexy, as well as popping a bit of color into the mess.
Whatever you do. Don’t assume that eggs are an easy thing to make that just taste okay. They’re exquisite; and on a budget like mine, you can’t ask for much else.
For now though, I’m off to train as an RA. I have a four hour seminar on marijuana coming up, followed by one about substance abuse, and then a pep rally, where we have to organize a cheer and a banner. Go team.