There’s a new breakfast trend a’brewin’ in Garkyville: fried eggs.
“But Garky,” you might object, “eggs aren’t a trend — they’re a staple.” No argument there: I do eat eggs, in some form or other, nearly every day.* Many of us do. Runny fried eggs for breakfast is a relatively new occurrence, considering that I’ve had homemade muesli (or a Mission Pie muffin) for my morning meal every day for months & months. (Sidenote: if you haven’t yet made your own muesli, what the hell are you waiting for? From one former muesli-hater to another, get yer ass to Whole Foods and get the necessary ingredients stat.)
This ramble isn’t about muesli, though: it’s about my newfound love of fried eggs, my fresh-formed acceptance of runny yolks. Egg yolk and I have quite a history; mostly, this history contains stories of me shunning yolk, refusing to look in its direction, and slamming the phone back into its cradle whenever y. called. For years & years, I wouldn’t eat a yolk that wasn’t cooked through. I wouldn’t eat eggs until my late teens.
Now, though, a whole new (viscous) world has opened. That’s right: these past few weekends, I’ve had fried eggs for breakfast — with toast, dabbed with Cholula, served alongside melty onions and peppers — and I’ve come to quite enjoy sopping up that bright yellow goo with my moderately buttered bread.
Sunday, my egg enjoyment reached extraordinary heights when Alex fried eggs in the fat rendered from our just-cooked bacon. Certainly, my eyes widened as A. poured back into the skillet a splash of the hot grease; they widened further as A. broke two eggs in the skillet. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this preparation method: my primary fear, aside from imminent cardiac arrest, was that my egg would be too greasy.
Fact: before Sunday, I’d never had an egg cooked in bacon fat.** Indeed, the only (identifiably) bacon-fat-infused food I’d tried was cornbread, made by some MFA-program compatriots who brought one heavy loaf to a faculty/student picnic. That was some damn good cornbread. But eggs? Mine are always cooked in butter or (gasp) nonstick cooking spray. (Don’t hurt me!)
I approached my egg with trepidation, tining it to release its runny yolk, watching said yolk dribble over my toast points. The egg itself was beautiful: faintly sheened, speckled with black, looking like it belonged to an early 20th-century novel. Fortunately for me, its taste stood up to its striking appearance; far from being too oily, the egg was rich, smoky. Spotted with hot sauce and eaten with tiny bites of toast (and bacon!), it was wholly comforting.
Incrementally, I’m learning my lessons: bacon fat is pretty effing tasty, and egg yolk and I may yet become friends. We’ve reached frenemy level, for now, but I’m warming. I’m not made of stone, after all.
*I don’t often think of the eggs I eat in deconstructed/”invisible” form — those stirred into cake batter (or pancakes, or muffins) — but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist, yo hey?
**That I can recall. There’s a slight chance that I’d eaten one on some camping trip, or maybe at my grandparents’ house (my grandparents who kept a bigass jar of cooking fat on their countertop), but for the sake of the story, we’ll say this was my first fat-fried egg.