The Egg and I

Fights, illness, trauma…. when things got bad my parents took us out to eat. Mom was convinced the trattoria around the corner could cure anything that ailed us. We’d walk in to find the owner parading around the dining room, rhythmically whipping up his signature zabaglione in a copper bowl, and everyone’s mood would instantly improve. The sound of that whisk hitting metal still echoes through my dreams: it is, to me, the sound of comfort.

Convinced that food was magic I decided to become a cook. I was seven. My very first attempt was zabaglione. I had never cracked an egg before, never separated yolks from whites, but I was mesmerized by the beauty of those sunny yellow orbs falling from the clear, thick whites. I enjoyed the hypnotic motion of the process. My mom had no whisks, no copper bowls, but I pulled a chair up to the stove, climbed on top and beat the yolks over simmering water with an old-fashioned eggbeater. I watched, fascinated, as the yolks foamed and blossomed, turning themselves into a gorgeously delicious fluff.

Obsessed, I made zabaglione three nights in a row (indulgent parents), and then wondered what to do with all those forlorn egg whites.

“Meringues,” my mom suggested.

The ingredients were the same – eggs, sugar, heat and air - but the results could not have been more different. I was hooked. On a sudden whim I combined the two, piling soft zabaglione into stiff meringues. “Eggs in eggs,” I announced as I served my chef d’ouevre; the grownups were enchanted.

If these are the first dishes you ever cook you are a very lucky person. Sadly, you soon discover that few recipes are equally intoxicating. Compared to the alchemy of eggs, everything else is rather boring. I spent some time pursuing other recipes and then decided to stick to eggs. By the age of eight I was the queen of custard. Then I discovered the sauces: mayonnaise, hollandaise and bearnaise flowed from my kitchen. I perfected Angel Food and omelets and went on to tackle soufflés.

“They’re supposed to be difficult,” I wailed to my mother as my first effort went into the oven. I was disappointed: it had been so easy.

“Just wait.” Mom knew that nothing is more magical than reaching into the oven to find your soufflé puffed up in all its regal glory.

In ...