I used to think there were two ways to scramble eggs: slow and fast. Both start the same—by beating eggs with a fork, whisk, pair of chopsticks, or the like until smooth. Then you either stir-fry over high-ish heat (my go-to, especially if there’s brown butter involved), or cook over ultra-low heat to form “small, delicate curds bound in a velvety sauce.”
But my husband ignores all of this because he skips the first step.
Instead of cracking the eggs into a bowl or cup and beating until smooth, he cracks them directly into the hot, greased skillet. He then scrambles them with a silicone spatula or wooden spoon (“The Corner-Geter” is our favorite for eggs) while they cook. See what I mean:
Scrambled? Yes. Eggs? Yes. Scrambled eggs? Maybe. The result is less like the dish as we know it, and more like fried eggs that are too busy to worry about appearances. The whites and yolks are melded in some places, separate in others, and different every time.
If you ask Justin how he came up with this, he’ll tell you, with a big smile, to save a dirty dish.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start an argument about this at first (no one said living with a recipe developer is fun). Me: “But we have a dishwasher!” (True.) Him: “But why use the bowl if I don’t have to?” (Also true.)
I became a believer as soon as I tried them. Justin’s eggs are the middle point between scrambled and over-medium, which is especially wonderful for buttered toast, veggie-laden rice bowls, and chile-mayo sandwiches.
But more than anything else, whenever I see sorta-scrambled eggs, I know it was because he made them, often for me. And there are few things that taste better than that.
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Justin and I fell asleep as we usually do (talking about breakfast) and decided as we usually do (on scrambled eggs and buttered toast). • Fast-forward to morning, when sheer curtains let in all the sunlight and our cat is losing her shit, and I wake up to this. Justin bringing me eggs and toast in bed. (Black tea and hot sauce not pictured, but important.) • If I posted every time Justin did something like this—small but hugely thoughtful—I’d post every day. And my whole account would be too many eggs, too much toast, too many moments where I’m shouting from an iPhone rooftop: Wow, wow, how much I love you. • I’d like to be more like that this year, though. Loudly grateful. But first, breakfast.
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