Two Plates of Eggs

Among our group of friends in college, Stacey and I were always the ones who could cook. To be fair, we had many, many friends who liked to cook, and just as many who laid claim (to anyone who would listen) to the best chocolate chip cookies, or the best lasagna. But I don't think it's giving us too much credit to say that Stacey and I were widely considered to be two of the best cooks in our group of friends, the two who could throw together the best dinner parties on the shortest notice. The ones who would tell you which bottle of wine to buy in a pinch, if you didn't know a Cabernet from a Chianti.

Stacey has since moved to Chicago, where she went to pastry school and did the impossible--she improved upon what we all assumed was perfection. So when Stacey promised me brunch upon my very early morning arrival in Chicago for my bachelorette party weekend, I was excited. I was even more excited when I saw the photographs she posted online a few days before of the challah bread she had baked from scratch in preparation for the French toast she was planning on making. I mean, seriously, who does that? And when I showed up at her apartment on a Sunday morning on four hours of sleep and found myself in possession of a very large mason jar full of very spicy bloody mary, including, I'm not kidding, and entire pickle she had pickled herself... Well. Excited isn't even the word.

There were many hysterical, silly, happy, food fueled moments that weekend, but that brunch takes all. My sister and my cousin showed up, and Stacey showed us all what she had been learning in school. The french toast was buttery, the bacon crisp. There was even a concord grape sorbet which blew. My. Mind. But the winner hands down was the caprese egg dish that Stacey made. I couldn't help but think of the caprese salads we had made nearly every weekend the first Summer we lived together in Boston and the farmer's market was our second home, magically transformed into breakfast. Stacey used sun dried tomatoes, some fresh mozzarella balls allowed to melt just slightly in the pan of cooking eggs, and topped it all with gorgeous, fresh green basil. It was like we'd died and gone to heaven. The eggs were perfectly cooked, not runny or dry, and that happy hour spent over breakfast fueled us through the rest of our girly, fun filled weekend.

Now please understand how vivid the memory of that meal was not two weeks later when I received two travel weary bridesmaids after midnight two days before my wedding. Stacey was absent, flying in the next morning with boyfriend Elliot to meet us on the Cape, but sister Leigh and cousin Rebecca-two thirds of the magical bridesmaid trifecta of power-were dragging their suitcases out of a cab in front of my building in the wee hours of the morning, and looking...a little wilted.

When I asked the girls if they needed anything they put on their best brave bridesmaid smiles and lied, and told me, "Nope, water would be great!" But I wasn't fooled. "Are you sure?" I asked. "My kitchen's not exactly stocked right now, but if you two are hungry, I think I could whip up some eggs." The wide eyed looks on their faces told me everything I needed to know.

I wasn't kidding when I said there wasn't a lot going on in my refrigerator. Preparing for my long weekend on the Cape, I had somewhat neglected my larder, so a fancy re-creation of Stacey's triumphant dish was out of the question. Instead, I opted to go in a different direction, offering the girls a classic three egg omelet with no frills, just egg and butter. It was a deceptively simple kitchen basic I had been working on perfecting, and as the girls looked on I explained about the benefits of butter not only as a cooking fat, but as a flavoring agent. We talked about the importance of letting the pan heat up thoroughly, just the way Stacey had two weeks before, when she showed us everything a plate of eggs could be. I talked about how tricky the simple omelet can be, and all the ways it can go wrong, becoming dense or dry or gummy, or bland.

The kitchen gods were truly with me that night as I turned out two simple but altogether perfect half moon shaped omelets, my best two to date, and watched as two of my favorite girls sat at my kitchen table in the middle of the night and ate them. Mr. Gastro had gone to bed early to nurse an ill timed cold, and so it was just us girls, working ourselves up into a silly, pre-nuptial frenzy as we talked until two am about new names, new family members, and the mania the next two days were bound to hold. These girls were going to do me a lot of favors in the next couple of days. At the time I wished I could have prepared them a feast, but in retrospect it seemed pretty perfect under the florescent lights of my kitchen, at 12:30 in the morning, to be eating three egg omelets and talking about shoes until we finally forced ourselves to go to bed so we could wake up the next day, do some last minute packing, and make our way to Cape Cod for a wedding.