Lately I’ve tried to change the scenery, to write and do other non-cooking tasks outside the kitchen. Why? Certainly it cuts down snacking. Working elsewhere puts baguettes and Nutella out of reach, and keeps me from drifting toward the what’s-for-dinner zone. But other rooms must be dull, because I am still glued here, with a messy bun that redefines messy bun. I am peering in the oven or upright at the stove, with one ear to the phone, two hands in a bowl and a lightly breaded keyboard.

Greg certainly benefits from my base. The other day I was about to throw steak over arugula for lunch – but decided to save the steak for dinner. Instead I grabbed a few linen-shaded eggs, a fresh gift from a brave chicken-raising neighbor, and they took a star turn on the salad – poached – with parmesan, pepper, and mustard vinaigrette.

The next night we had roast chicken, and I’d planned a little spinach-ricotta souffle on the side. When I found more arugula than spinach, it became arugula-ricotta souffle, vividly green and equally good. You can mess around in the kitchen; you can mix and match and literally think on your feet. You can teach tired old tools brand new tricks.

Like the cheese shaver, which loves butter. Who knew?

If you like to play with your food, do as you please: add that vanilla, take out onions, toss the recipe, make your fine-rib shirt an apron. It is, after all, your kitchen. Late afternoon in my kitchen, light barges through panes above the sink, rays strong enough to blind the cook, but I like it.

I like the gleaming faucet. I like stirring in bright shadows. I don’t mind squinting or pushing back hair or tripping on Cleo, in dreams on the floor. I am always in the kitchen, a room where I taste honey, correct sauce, know the answers. Anyone can triumph there, or fight, or get engaged, or take a call that stops you cold; in the kitchen, you may fill the teapot and go on. A reporter once asked my favorite teacher, a chef, do you eat your mistakes? He looked stunned. “No,” he smiled, “we fix them.”

Today’s rerun, from July 2008: when I messed around with eggs and Edies, I found myself Eating My Words. Original post found here.

—————-

When Josie was a toddler, I dutifully subscribed to family-activity-type magazines – and who knows why, because I always started with with “Look! We should go to that family tree-climbing resort in Costa Rica!” and finished by hurling it at the wall.

What ticked me off in those glossies were the food projects. Every kids’ activity involved turning string cheese into castles or candy bars into costumes. Why would they waste all that food, I’d demand to Josie, why? The poor thing would just flip the pages, dreaming of processed cheese. With people starving, why do they need to paste lettuce into hats?

Well, people, today I eat my words. Jean over at Renovation Therapy is hosting a Grey Gardens contest.* (update – contest over!) The Grey Gardens ladies are quite a sensation – but if you’re not familiar with Grey Gardens, it’s the true story of Big Edie and Little Edie Bouvier Beale, two Jackie O. cousins who lived out their splendorous, manic days in a decrepit Hamptons mansion.

Big Edie and Little Edie Beale, going bats

Made famous in a 1975 documentary, their story was also told in a Broadway musical and soon, a feature film. For her contest, Jean asked everyone to get in touch with their inner Edie and for most people, this meant donning scarves and faux furs. At my house, we tried something different.

Little Edie wonders: will I ever get away?

Don’t ask me why I had to make Edible Edies. It seemed like a stunning idea at the time – but last night, as I wrapped green apple-scarves and flattened bread into minks, it occurred to me that I was dressing eggs. And the photo shoot? If my neighbors had peeped through the window at ten, they would have spied me posing and shooting two hard-boiled dames. Work with me, Edies!

I’ve always had a thing for eggs, perhaps due to a conspicuous lack of Easter. Plenty of eggs at Passover to be sure, but…different. Not so decorative. So when I first worked in bakeries and Easter rolled around, I was thrilled to join the party, and hit the bunny trail with a vengeance. My co-workers would look over and say oh, my…um, elaborate. I’d look up and say what. Don’t all egg cakes get a working chocolate carousel?

With apologies to every family magazine that ever advocated graham cracker choo-choos, these are the materials I used for Edie Eggs:

two hard-boiled eggs
semi-sweet chocolate (glasses and eyes)
two yellow Skittles (brooches)
one pink Skittle (lips)
glittery sanding sugar (brooches)
three peppercorns (brooch)
three chocolate jimmies (brooch)
one corn husk (shirt)
corn silk (Big Edie’s hair)
one potato peel (collar)
one slice of Health Nut bread (mink)
one Granny Smith peel (turban)
one cherry tomato peel (lips)

So I went and wasted all that food – surely someone will miss their Skittles tonight – and now I’m not even sure they look like the Edies. More like a 1920′s flapper and an egg-shaped Harry Potter, but whatever. It was fun.

Now – if you’d like to see two adorable Edie dogs, one precious Edie baby and several hilarious Edie adults, run over to Renovation Therapy and vote. And remember, don’t play with your food.

* contest over! Time for a new one, Jean.

From May 28, 2008 – The Last Time I Saw Paris
(if you’d like to comment on the original post, click here)

—————–

By the time you read this, I will be in a seat with little legroom, hurtling across the ocean toward the City of Light. The first time I saw Paris, we slept on the floor, carried backpacks and didn’t spend enough money to be shocked by prices – bottled water, bread and cheese, a slice of apple tart. The second time we slept in a hotel, brought a toddler, and were shocked by the price of everything. This time I anticipate just being plain shocked – at hotel prices, apple tarts, having a preteen instead of a toddler – everything.

Still, we keep going back for more, even with mixed feelings about Parisians. They run from “Thank you for letting us co-exist with you for this brief time, and for being the keeper of life’s delicious mysteries,” to “Screw you. I am putting ketchup on this burger right now.”

Love them or hate them, they have everything I want – except deep dish pizza.

Back in 2000, we visited for a second time when Josie was almost-four. I recall that trip as the last gasp for our umbrella stroller, which we dumped before the flight home. Every day we’d walk for miles, and when Josie wouldn’t walk, we’d pop her in the stroller. She was (and is) a great traveler, cheerfully running through metro stations and security gates and sculpture gardens, but she was small, and Paris was huge.

After one crabby afternoon she collapsed in the stroller and we pushed her, snoozing, into a little restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. The Champ de Mars neighborhood is unspeakably charming in a way that makes it seem bitterly unfair to live anywhere else, and as the stars came out I peeked into tiny lit apartments above cheese shops, and briefly planned to abandon my family for whomever lived upstairs. Instead I pushed my sleeping toddler into a nearby bistro, Chez L’Ami Jean, and hoped for the best.

Inside there were little wooden tables, a row of banquettes, chalked specials and Basque pelote bric-a-brac on the walls. A middle-aged woman in an apron ran out from the kitchen, looked at my sleeping kid, and I thought, this is it. We are about to be booted to Le McDonald’s. But she swooped down at the stroller, quietly kissing each sleeping cheek, cooing over eyelashes and retying her gym shoes. Oh, thank you, thank you for the international language of sympathy.

She pushed Josie’s stroller right up to the table and insisted we not wake her up. Things were going swimmingly while she slept, but as we drank our red wine her eyes began to flutter, and I felt like a seismologist – it could be a tremor, or it could be a disaster. Should I order her something? The maman appeared again with a plate, and at the moment Josie’s brown eyes snapped open, she put it down in front of her.

Without asking, they had made her a fluffy yellow omelette with gruyere cheese and a little green salad with bacon. The woman set cold orange juice and a soft brioche in front of my child, and waited. Josie stared soundlessly at the food, reached her round toddler hand out, and began eating like she’d never eaten before. The woman beamed, and we all breathed. Later there were sweets; a tender profiterole, a little chocolate for her pockets – and as we left, she buckled Josie into her stroller, zipped her red jacket and smooched her face.

How often are we the recipients of unabashed acts of intuition and kindness? Even now when I turn a yellow omelette I think of the Parisians. They are not all that way, but they have what everyone wants and they know what everyone wants in a richly supernatural way. When they don’t want to share, you’ll know it, but when they do – well, I am headed back to Paris. With any luck, I will be tired, and my feet will hurt, and someone will bring me eggs and cheese and red wine without asking. And also that the exchange rate will improve, and chocolate and croissants will suddenly have no carbs.

And now for the winner.  In a rigorously fair ceremony overseen by – um, Cleo – I  tossed all your names into a giant white egg-shaped tumbler.  I cranked the the egg beater-shaped handle a hundred times and then opened the tumbler door. A L’eggs pantyhose egg rolled out and cracked open to reveal…a Silly Putty egg.  I pulled that one apart and found…a Cadbury egg.  Which I ate.

Delicious creamy goodness.  Still, I managed to save the chocolate-covered name of the big winner, who is…Jayne, from Dainty Digs!

Congratulations, Jayne.  Send me your details and little Mr. Egg Whisk will be headed your way.  For the record, Jayne noted that she likes her scrambled eggs “with cottage cheese and salt and pepper,” and sometimes, with a little dill.

My family loves eggs, and I love to cook them – eggs, not my family.  Most days.  Anyway, this golden triangle works – they crave it, I provide it, everyone’s happy and what’s more, I get to sing the 1970′s “incredible egg” jingle at the stove.  Ooh, you’re gonna love it – the incredible, edible egg.

Wait!  I know, I know, Josie says it’s painful, but – there’s a contest.  Be patient.

Scrambled eggs are fast, user-friendly and a truly versatile player at breakfast, lunch or dinner.  A recent weeknight meal shows why eggs are more than tasty, they’re helpful.  We’d hosted a brunch the weekend before and had leftover bits of lox, red onions, capers and cream cheese.  Poof!  Out came the eggs and the last few bagels.  Chop, heat, scramble, dinner.


Scrambled eggs like to partner with leftovers. They won’t ignore that wallflower stub of cheddar – they’ll whisk it onto the floor. Examine this list and you’ll see the fading jar in the back, those languishing peppers, that sad slice of turkey.  Here’s their chance to shine.

Oh – and that contest? Just leave  a comment below telling me “how you like your eggs” – and for the very bored only, name your favorite post from Simmer that mentions eggs.  Winner will be chosen randomly, but…what a nice search box up there. I’m just saying.

Contest ends Friday, 9/12 at 8 am. Your prize?

This smart little whisk. Brand-new and full of eggy goodness, he awaits your mixing command.

Now, about those 25 ways.

Start by scrambling eggs in your favorite manner; I like to add a bit of milk, stir-stir-stir on high heat, then turn them over a few times to finish on low. In the last few turns, toss in any of these additions, then season to taste with salt & pepper. Unless otherwise noted, most ingredients here should be roughly chopped (meats) or shredded (medium to hard cheeses). All meats and some vegetable add-ins, like red onions or asparagus, should be cooked ahead. Let your taste guide the amounts, and feel free to mix it up – it’s an idea list, so build on it! Whatever you love might be your next successful scramble.

25 Ways to Scramble Eggs

1. scallions, sharp cheddar, sea salt & ground pepper

2. black forest ham and baby swiss

3. roasted tomatoes and fresh thyme, topped with pecorino romano

4. diced salami and white cheddar (you’ll also need 2-3 breath mints)

5. chunky salsa, black olives and avocado, wrapped in a tortilla with a spoonful of sour cream

6. nova lox, capers, sauteed red onions & cream cheese

7. corned beef, hash browns and onions

8. leftover fried rice, plus a dollop of hoisin or oyster sauce

9. chopped grilled chicken and feta cheese, lemon zest and oregano

10. cooked asparagus and blue cheese (Iowa-made Maytag is perfect)

11. roast turkey, wild mushrooms and goat cheese

12. chorizo sausage, green peppers, tomatoes and onions

13. shrimp, green onions and cilantro, topped with Thai fish sauce

14. smoked gouda and apricot chutney

15. crabmeat, green onions and cream cheese blended with a splash of dry sherry

16. cottage cheese, chopped chives, parsley, sea salt and ground pepper

17. crumbled breakfast sausage, red and green peppers, fresh sage

18. roast turkey, tomatoes, bacon and gruyere cheese

19. prosciutto, spinach and shaved parmesan, with a dash of nutmeg

20. cream corn, pepper bacon and green chiles, with a dash of cayenne

21. zorba: mixed Greek olives (pitted, chopped), roasted red peppers & feta cheese

22. green eggs and ham: a dollop of pesto, chopped spinach and smoked ham

23. buffalo: grilled chicken, blue cheese, dash of hot sauce & side of celery

24. ratatouille: sautéed zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant and onions

25. waldorf: peeled and diced granny smith apples, walnuts, blue cheese

___________

Pssst…you, eyeing the little egg whisk! Sorry, the contest’s over – but if you’re enjoying this shell game, go ahead and leave your favorite in the comments. It’s like a Grade AA Extra-Large directory down there. How do you like your eggs?

If you haven’t yet checked out the brave women, dogs and babies in Jean’s Grey Gardens contest, it’s a must-see. Have a great weekend!

What ticked me off in those glossies were the food projects. Every kids’ activity involved turning string cheese into castles or candy bars into costumes. Why would they waste all that food, I’d demand to Josie, why? The poor thing would just flip the pages, dreaming of processed cheese. With people starving, why do they need to paste lettuce into hats?

Well, people, today I eat my words. Jean over at Renovation Therapy is hosting a Grey Gardens contest.* The Grey Gardens ladies are quite a sensation – but if you’re not familiar with Grey Gardens, it’s the true story of Big Edie and Little Edie Bouvier Beale, two Jackie O. cousins who lived out their splendorous, manic days in a decrepit Hamptons mansion.

Big Edie and Little Edie Beale, going bats

Made famous in a 1975 documentary, their story was also told in a Broadway musical and soon, a feature film. For her contest, Jean asked everyone to get in touch with their inner Edie and for most people, this meant donning scarves and faux furs. At my house, we tried something different.

Little Edie wonders: will I ever get away?

Don’t ask me why I had to make Edible Edies. It seemed like a stunning idea at the time – but last night, as I wrapped green apple-scarves and flattened bread into minks, it occurred to me that I was dressing eggs. And the photo shoot? If my neighbors had peeped through the window at ten, they would have spied me posing and shooting two hard-boiled dames. Work with me, Edies!

I’ve always had a thing for eggs, perhaps due to a conspicuous lack of Easter. Plenty of eggs at Passover to be sure, but…different. Not so decorative. So when I first worked in bakeries and Easter rolled around, I was thrilled to join the party, and hit the bunny trail with a vengeance. My co-workers would look over and say oh, my…um, elaborate. I’d look up and say what. Don’t all egg cakes get a working chocolate carousel?

With apologies to every family magazine that ever advocated graham cracker choo-choos, these are the materials I used for Edie Eggs:

two hard-boiled eggs
semi-sweet chocolate (glasses and eyes)
two yellow Skittles (brooches)
one pink Skittle (lips)
glittery sanding sugar (brooches)
three peppercorns (brooch)
three chocolate jimmies (brooch)
one corn husk (shirt)
corn silk (Big Edie’s hair)
one potato peel (collar)
one slice of Health Nut bread (mink)
one Granny Smith peel (turban)
one cherry tomato peel (lips)

So I went and wasted all that food – surely someone will miss their Skittles tonight – and now I’m not even sure they look like the Edies. More like a 1920′s flapper and an egg-shaped Harry Potter, but whatever. It was fun.

Now – if you’d like to see two adorable Edie dogs, one precious Edie baby and several hilarious Edie adults, run over to Renovation Therapy and vote. And remember, don’t play with your food.

* contest over! Time for a new one, Jean.

And I did. I dragged that tomboy blog inside and gave it a makeover.

Pretty. But, did you notice? All the comments are gone. Months of chatter – back and forth, stories and advice, questions and answers. Gone.

Yep, they’ve gone their separate ways, and they’re not coming back.

This makes me oddly sad – like losing an autograph book. I lost one a long time ago, a book decorated with Kliban cats and signed by Judy Blume. My Judy would never read a comment-less blog.

(Are you there, blog? It’s me, Marilyn)

Maybe you could all think hard, go back, and re-post everything you said the last seven months?

Ha! That’s rich. I can’t even remember what I said five minutes ago. Let’s chalk it up to scrambled blog and move on.

It’s good to start from scratch.

But the potatoes would not bake.

They were scrubbed, poked, salted and in there for over an hour, but simply refused to bake. I was furiously stabbing the half-bakeds when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something in the salad:

I called Josie back to the kitchen, and pointed.

“Oh…Mr. EGG!”

We got a look at him in better light. Yes, they had unwittingly picked up a salad bar miracle – The Happy Mr. Egg.

Then the potatoes baked fluffy, Mr. Egg smiled from the counter, dinner was served, and for a moment – just a moment – college basketball didn’t exist.

Josie couldn’t bear to eat him.

But I must say, he was delicious.