This is a tale of a simple egg, scrambled over low heat, with just enough patience to make it perfect.
It is not the scrambled egg of my childhood.
That memory is packed away with the almost forgotten flavors of overcooked green beans and spinach from a can, and maybe a few too many Jell-O salads.
Not all food memories from the good ol' days are good.
This is a story, in fact, of how we cook and how we learn to cook. And when to change our methods.
I never had a lesson in making scrambled eggs, but as a child I had them often, less breakfast dish than midday sandwich — two slices of white bakery bread, eggs topped with spears of homemade dill pickles — a dish both crunchy and comfy.
The scrambled egg in question was made with the haste that might be expected of a cook in charge of feeding and corralling three hungry youngsters. The goal was to put lunch on the table fast.
To speed up the process, the cook (who shall remain nameless since there was no expectation of being criticized decades later) cracked the eggs into a heated pan with melted butter.