Comfort

When I lived in the House of Salt last summer, I cooked eggs. Duck, chicken, quail, goose, turkey. Hard-boiled, soft-boiled, scrambled, slow-poached, fried, en cocette, in quiche, in custard, on Himalayan salt blocks. In ones, in twos, in decadence, in threes. With piles of spinach, with cheese, with mounds of bread, with no accompaniment. With salt. With pepper. Even in brine. There is no way I do not like to eat my eggs. My favorite way to cook eggs, though, is softly.

There are no bells and whistles involved in making soft-cooked eggs, only patience. They're as delicate as they sound, and as simple. Two eggs, broken into a bowl, lightened with drops of milk, whisked. Sprinkled with salt, pepper, stirred gently at low heat for a dozen minutes. I like to stand there, in front of the stovetop, slowly waking up with the yellows as they slowly solidify into glistening mounds. It gives me enough time to think, to process my sleep-heady emotions, to reconcile myself to the world.

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