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14 April 2007 @ 23:34
I came to egg-in-a-hole fairly late in my childhood. Until I was about 12, I was completely grossed out by runny egg yolks. If I ate a fried egg, it had to be cooked through and so I generally stuck to scrambled eggs on toast, or hard boiled eggs at Easter. And then one day, my mother pulled out of her seemingly endless bag of tricks the egg-in-a-hole and I was converted. Runny yolks held no fear for me anymore: I mopped them up with bread, dunked my bacon into them, and licked the dripping yellow off my fingers when I ate a fried egg sandwich. I've not looked back since.

Egg-in-a-hole has many different names. My other half knows it as 'gas-house eggs'. Some people call it eggy bread, a good name, but not as good as egg-in-a-hole. And just as it has many names, there are many ways of making it. The idea is simple, but it's surprisingly hard to make it consistently perfect. My mother managed; I've never been able to make it just right every time. Mum always used brown bread. With a butter knife, she would cut a hole out of the middle of the bread, and then fry both the slice and the hole in butter. When she flipped the bread, she would then crack an egg into the bread. When the edges of the white were turning crisp and brown, she slid the egg in a hole onto a plate, placed the hole on top like a little hat, and squished it slightly so that the yolk began to ooze. A sprinkle of salt and pepper and whatever you call it, it's quite possibly the best breakfast ever.


Saturday mornings are my favourite time of the week. I lie in bed long past waking up, until the last bit of sleepiness is gone and I'm almost twitching to get up. Wrapped in my bathrobe, I head to the kitchen, make a cup of tea, and think about breakfast. This thinking goes on until I'm quite hungry and only then is it time to eat. We vary our Saturday morning brunch: toast, bacon butties, pancakes - or today, egg-in-a-hole. My boyfriend makes it for me, and it turns out beautifully. The bread is salty from the butter, with a crisp crust and soft inside. The egg is perfectly cooked so that the white is browned and the yolk is warm but runny. Some coarse sea salt is grated over top and then I tuck in. It's gone in about seven bites, and I mop the plate with the last corner of bread. I think we might have to make another round for lunch.
jenjenniferarrr on 15th April 2007 16:26 (UTC)
I think my family, or at least my mom, got it confused and calls that "toad in the hole." They set me straight when I got to the UK.
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