My Father's Daughter

I cannot credit all of my cooking know-how to my mother. Actually, I probably spent more hours in front of my father's stove, making all sorts of dishes that would piss off the average single dad. He would take his time in explaining recipes and techniques to cooking, but I started blocking him out when I realized that he just loved to hear himself speak.

I wished I had paid more attention on Christmas, when Dad would make milk-poached eggs on sourdough toast. I was too busy paying attention to presents to remember anything, except that it takes a ridiculous amount of milk to do it properly. I cannot remember how to properly poach an egg, or whether the sourdough toast needed any prep work aside from slicing. I do remember that it was delicious; that memory stands out the strongest.

Yesterday when I asked Ben how he wanted his breakfast eggs he told me to surprise him. Aside from wondering who this sexy Ben-like stranger was in my home, I decided to try out my dad's old holiday special. I really pulled a Captain Kirk on this one, doing a quick scan of poached egg techniques and hoping that the rest would come to me like some ancient family spell.

Amazingly enough, my family magic came through. The eggs were soft, delicious, and creamy. The milk made a great topping for the sourdough toast, as well. Ben and I polished off a dozen eggs between us, and I was ready for more. I have already scheduled a breakfast date with Father Augustine so I can share more family food secrets with him (he's practically family at this point, anyway).

The only drawback is that I crave poached eggs EXCLUSIVELY today. Pancakes? No thanks, I want eggs. Caramel candy? No, eggs. Anything else in the history of anything, ever?!

Nope, I made more poached eggs instead. I'm pathetic.