Some photos that publicly proclaim my love for eggs.
Note: Every Thursday, post a food photo: it can be of what youâ€™re eating, what you want to eat, etc. It can be shot with any device, from a mobile phone, tablet, to a regular camera â€“ point & shoot or SLR. Itâ€™s all up to you but it must be YOUR photo, no ripping off of somebody elseâ€™s work. And please include a short description. We want to know what it is and where to eat it too, if possible.
Itâ€™s been a long time since Iâ€™ve done an egg post. Hereâ€™s the original, the one that started it all, and at the end of this piece are the rest of my essays on the humble egg. A few mornings ago, I make an all-egg white omelet for breakfast stuffed with red beans. I eat it with whole-grain toast and itâ€™s tasty enough, but I canâ€™t help but notice how anemic â€“ pale! â€“ the eggs look when divorced from their yolks.
Inherently more flavorful than the unfortunate brekkie I make are these two dishes where the egg, rightfully, plays a starring role. The cover photo above is that of the Grilled Asparagus with Roasted Shiitake Mushrooms and Truffled Egg as served at Malcolmâ€™s Place. Shorn of their woody stems, the green spears have a toothsome texture, their pencil-thin bodies slick with olive oil. Contrasting with their crispness are the mushrooms, meaty and bold. Their macho character seems to overwhelm the seemingly plain, poached egg. But then the egg’s bulging orb is pierced and a voluptuous imagining comes to life in a glory that seeps and spreads: gold over green.
Another evening, Iâ€™m at Mamou. My friends and I have decided that weâ€™re not ordering the steak because itâ€™s become our default dish. So they both order the Lamb Tapa and I get the Roast Pork & Chicken (P345, half portion). Iâ€™ve not been back to Mamou for more than six months so I want to jump onto the table with glee when I see that a duck egg is available as a side order.
Though the whites of a duck egg are more rubbery than that of a chickenâ€™s, thereâ€™s no comparing their yolks. A yolk from a duck egg is like the orange of a setting sunset or the stigmas of saffron when steeped in hot liquid. The yolk, broken as it is over my red beans and rice, runs its languid course, staining and spilling. With a sprinkle of salt, the flavor of an egg melds with its partners and melts into my memory.
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