…Culinary Confessions No. 1

I have a confession to make…but first…a little backgound:

I’ve spent the last three plus years waxing poetically about Thom’s cooking-about his insane ability to take almost nothing and make something.  Something incredibly delicious and satisfying-something I actually do write home about, complete with pictures and mouth-watering details.

His process goes something like this:  He’ll ask what I want for brekky, lunch, dinner, etc.  After about three rounds of “I don’t know, what do you want?”  I’ll generally give a general answer like, oh, black beans and flour tortillas. Now, granted, I haven’t lived with a lot of men {okay, none before Thomas} but I’m sure their response to this would be to open a can of black beans and plop some on a cold flour tortilla and call it good.  Not Thom, though.  I usually just let him do his thing in the kitchen without much regard to the whole process.  I hear cupboards opening and closing.  I hear the spices being scouted.  I hear sizzling, and steam, and sauces boiling away.  I smell unusual scents wafting my way…and I never turn down a sampling spoon when it’s offered. I can almost always count on a fabulous meal.  Black beans & flour tortilla jacked up and  tasting so good I want to slap my grandma.

But this post isn’t about black beans and flour tortillas.  In fact, it’s about scrambled eggs.  Scrambled eggs so light and fluffy.  Scrambled eggs that melt in your mouth.  It’s about scrambled eggs that I ask for at least twice a week-for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And the confession?  Well…it has a little something to do with scrambled eggs.  One night about a year ago, I requested Thom’s awesome eggs for dinner and I wandered into the kitchen while he was scrambling them up.  And what I saw was horrifying to me.  So much so that I shouted, startling Thom.  What did I see?  Butter.  A huge, gigantic mound of margarine sizzling away in the skillet.  A scary amount of butter that suddenly made my arteries ache.  So much butter, in fact, that all I could do was stare and stammer.  I’m positive my reaction offended my love. We went on to have a heated debate over the use of so much margarine.  And after half the margarine was unceremoniously dumped into the trash I had to admit, the eggs just didn’t taste the same.  And so…I don’t question Thom’s method any more.  I don’t question the amounts of fats, oils, and the not-so-good for me ingredients.  I mean, really…who I am to talk, with all the baking I do I shouldn’t be calling the pot black, now should I?

Now that I have that off my chest…this post really isn’t about scrambled eggs either.  It’s about homemade onion rings.  Really, really good onion rings.

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