Behind the Ironic Column

I’ve been eating a lot more eggs this winter.  I think it’s something about the protein or maybe just that it’s a hot breakfast rather than yogurt and fruit.  In either case, my body seems to want warm food because it’s cold outside and not that warm inside.  I never paid all that much attention to the ban on eating eggs because of cholesterol problems.  What I eat for breakfast is based more on what I find appealing and what fits into whichever lifestyle I happen to be following.   When I made a mad dash out the door every morning, I didn’t want to be bothered with something that requires cooking and cleanup.  Too much extra time, I thought.  Now that my mad dash is to the computer screen, I can be more relaxed about the time element and the warmth issue is more important.

But the reason I’m thinking about fried eggs has to do with my grandmother and the ironic twist that has me frying eggs this morning.  When I first started in elementary school, my parents lived way back off the paved road system and getting to a school bus was a project.  So the family decided that I would stay with my grandparents during the school year — they lived on a road that not only had a bus but was actually close enough to the school to walk if the need arose.  This was fine with me because I could be an only child — away from the nuisance of a baby brother and free to amuse myself with my grandfather’s books.  The only big drawback was that my grandmother believed in fried eggs for breakfast.  I can’t remember that she ever made anything else although surely she must have.  And they weren’t the light and fluffy kind of eggs either — they were hard and somewhat greasy.  And they didn’t come with sausage or bacon — just eggs.  I hated them.  It was my first chore every morning to get through those eggs and make it to the school bus — down a long sidewalk overhung with rhododendrons.  I remember that sidewalk as being like a tunnel — and at the end of the tunnel was the school bus.  I loved going to school so there was no way I’d miss that — eggs or no eggs.  In those days children didn’t get to declare they wouldn’t eat such and such.  I’m sure I must have complained about the eggs but cereal wasn’t going to be something my grandmother would indulge in.  In my heart, I vowed that I’d never have yucky fried eggs again.   After a couple of years, my parents moved to a more accessible location and I didn’t stay with my grandmother in the winter.  No more eggs.  Cereal was fine with my mother.

I grew up, went to college, and got a job.  Once in a while we had an omelet or even scrambled eggs, but not fried ones.  And when my first husband and I ate eggs, we always had bacon as well.  (You can tell I paid no attention to the dietary guidelines)  Years later, I lived with someone who liked fried egg and cheese sandwiches.  This was something I’d never really had and they were pretty good.  Besides I wasn’t making them. 

These days, I laugh to myself as I crack an egg into my cast iron skillet.  I’m sure my grandmother would say I’m finally being sensible.  She probably used lard while I tend to use butter, but the effect is the same.  I’m back to eating fried eggs for breakfast.  Maybe the secret is that I needed to have coffee with them.  And bacon or sausage if I choose.

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