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As my ADHD brethren will attest, mornings are hard. I have to wrestle my thoughts into cohesion, words into sentences, and wants and needs into action. Coffee helps. So does Wordle, which I always start with a different word, like a splash of cold water to the face. I take the same approach to cooking an egg. Every morning is different — a little science experiment to awaken my brain.
Eggs are miraculously sensitive to the smallest variations: the heat radiating from the pan, the intensity and nearness of the flame, the oil or butter used, their own freshness and temperature, the hand of the cook. There must be a thousand ways to cook an egg, and I’ve probably tried them all.
For scrambled eggs with big curds, I’ll get the pan really hot on a high flame, let the butter brown and foam, then hold the pan above the burner as I toss the beaten egg. For small curds, I might mix a tiny bit of cornstarch dissolved in water into the beaten egg (try it!) and keep the pan over the lowest flame.
At times, I’ve found textural excitement in an egg fried in hot olive oil until its perimeter becomes a ring of crunchy brown lace. Other times, the perfectly white over-medium egg, its yolk sloughing rather than gushing, is precisely what I want, perhaps over leftover rice with a dollop of chile crisp. I might even grate Parmesan over the egg before flipping it, then crank the heat to caramelize the cheese. Or I’ll break the yolk on purpose so it spreads out a bit, creating the perfect egg sandwich egg.
If there’s an end of cheese or half a scallion that needs using up, I’ll make an omelet. In cooking school, I learned that the best test for any prospective restaurant cook was a French omelet, which by definition doesn’t betray a speck of browning, remains loose and unset in the center, and lands its final fold on the plate thanks to a choreographed series of hand motions. When I need a challenge, I’ll attempt one. (Likewise, I’ll use “xylem” as my opening gambit in Wordle.) But then other times, I seem to end up with a sloppy diner omelet crammed with veggies and cheese, splotchy brown, and breaking apart, the kind you eat with a piece of toast in one hand and a fork in the other.
I never quite know what will emerge from the pan, how the breakfast gods will guide my hand. But I do know the egg will always deliver the same message: Good morning.
John Kessler is a freelance dining critic and columnist for Chicago magazine.