Eggs: A Culinary Journey from Childhood to Culinary Mastery

Eggs. Always Have Been. Always Will Be.

There’s something about eggs. They’re humble. Honest. Ubiquitous. But when you really take the time to do them right, they transcend the plate. They become a memory. A moment. A reason.

My grandmother made what she called an “Egg McMurray.” Fried egg, a slice of American cheese, and a slab of fried bologna on a buttered, toasted English muffin. No frills. No ego. Just something warm and salty and full of comfort. The kind of thing that sticks with you—not because it’s fancy, but because someone made it for you with love.

I’ve always had a thing for Eggs Benedict. Perfect poached eggs, toasted English muffin, salty Canadian bacon, and that velvety hollandaise—it’s rich, sharp, and impossibly smooth. Everything working together like a well-rehearsed band. It’s the kind of breakfast that dares you to respect it.

Most of the time though, it was eggs because that’s what we had. At the time they were cheap. Filling. Adaptable. Fried, scrambled, over-easy, hard-boiled—doesn’t matter. Every way teaches you something. Flip too late and the yolk’s blown. Go too soon and you’ve got raw whites staring at you like judgment. You learn the rhythm or you suffer.

In culinary school, they told us the 100 folds in a chef’s toque represent the 100 ways to cook an egg. It sounded like cliché—but it stuck with me. Mastering eggs means mastering timing, heat, patience. Everything else builds from there.

Sundays were sacred. My mom would take me to The Bagel Place. I always got the same thing: over-easy eggs, home fries, crispy bacon, and a toasted “Egg Everything” bagel with butter. Orange juice and chocolate milk on the side. That breakfast wasn’t just food—it was a ritual. She’s gone now, but those mornings are etched into my mind forever.

And then there’s the Hungry-Man Hero. A real one—not the TV dinner version. I’m talking about a 12-inch hero loaded with three eggs (over-easy for me), bacon, sausage patties, slices of ham, American cheese, and a mountain of home fries. Salt, pepper, ketchup. Wrapped in foil, steaming, heavy like a brick. That sandwich could silence a hangover and shut down your appetite ‘til dinner.

My grandmother’s potatoes and eggs weren’t technically perfect—canned potatoes, eggs cooked a little too long, sometimes turning that odd green tint. But it wasn’t about precision. It was about care. And that care came through in every bite.

Some dishes hit deeper. Like Shakshuka—eggs poached in a simmering bath of tomatoes, peppers, garlic, and spices. It’s bold, beautiful, and best eaten straight from the skillet with crusty bread tearing through yolk and sauce. Pure comfort with a little heat and a lot of soul.

Huevos Rancheros? Same deal. Runny egg over a fried tortilla, topped with salsa, beans, maybe some chorizo if you're lucky. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s everything I love about food.

At the end of the day, it always comes back to eggs. They’ve fed me, taught me, grounded me. They remind me where I came from. And they show up for me every time I need them.

Stick around—I’ve got a few recipes that’ll make you remember why eggs matter.