Dispelling Fear with Cooking
Poached Eggs are the Daffodil of Foods
It’s been a year. A year since my knee surgery.
I don’t think I’ll count my years like this forever, but for now I’m using it as a marker.
It’s also Spring again, which has me thinking about Winter. This past Winter I battled being scared of things. Winter can be a good time to grow fear, if nothing else. It’s cold and dark and harder to move, to battle inertia.
Was that a twinge in my chest?
In my knee?
Did my ACL detach?
Will I fall?
Will I lose my job?
Did I leave the oven on?
And on and on…
What calms me when I’m like this? Cooking.
A recent destabilizing event had me take to the stove to make risotto. I thought the constant stirring motion would be hypnotizing and lull my overactive brain into a sedated state. My cupboard was not stocked appropriately with the usual Arborio or Carnaroli—I had only long grain brown rice.
Have you ever made a risotto with brown rice? Get ready to settle in for ninety minutes as you wait for that water to fully absorb into those resilient grains.
Talk about hypnotizing. Catatonic. My fear was replaced by frustration and hunger. Problem solved! And the culinary result was decidedly, well…BROWN.
Brown rice with mushrooms. Brown on brown. A true winter color palette if you’re from New Jersey. However, it was delicious if visually uninspiring.
But color and newness can also dispel fear, like shining a light in the darkness. Every Spring, daffodils bloom in our yard, planted by my great aunt oh-so-many years ago. I love seeing them sally forth into spring, bursting yellow onto a still brownish-gray scene.
What is the culinary equivalent to a daffodil?
Poached eggs.
My mom gifted me an egg poacher a while back. A pot with an insert that cradles four eggs over a water bath for perfect poaching possibilities.
I pulled it out of hibernation and have been using it many mornings.
Four-ish minutes in their private steaming chamber and the eggs are ready for me.
I have it timed, so that my sourdough is toasted and slathered in butter and flaky sea salt and ready to receive these little poachies. I might get fancy and add freshly ground black pepper, or playfully squeeze on some ketchup in the shape of a smile.
Inserting a fork into the center of the egg and having the golden yolks spill out over the brown-ish bread, daffodil-like, brings me so much joy. And then swirling my toast through the yellow pools, not letting any go to waste (you’ve seen the price of eggs, after all…).
And perhaps, if no one is looking, licking the plate to scoop up any remaining flakes of salt.
I take notice of the crunchy crust of the bread, the gooey yolks, the bouncy whites, and the soft pillowy bread insides. I appreciate all the contrasts on my tongue. And for the full ten minutes it takes to eat it, I don’t think of anything else. Except when I can have it again.
