It’s funny how there are just things that are not re-creatable.
Case in point: my mom’s eggs.
I have tried countless times to make the same, or make them better (which I have learned by now is impossible), but it’s only mom who knows how to make them moist, but dry. She has the perfect form and I’m sure even if she helped me learn, but it wouldn’t be the same.
Because there are just some things that stay as they are. They cannot be improved. So what happens? I just don’t eat scrambled eggs.
I’m not saying this as a sob story, I’m just reflecting on the way that some food, no matter what, can never be recreated.
Those beautiful, warm, moist, dry eggs are, and will always, be the best when, and only when, my mom makes them.
My mom did a lot of cooking and baking, so she’s pretty emblematic of food for me, eating, cooking, smelling, seeing. And lots of times I get by, I make quiches, I make cupcakes, and they’re fine alternatives. But these eggs, there is no replacement.
I guess it doesn’t help that I firmly believe there will never be a replacement (a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy huh?) but it is indeed what I believe.
And it’s what I want as well. Who cares I can’t really eat others eggs? (Although I have had some great eggs in the past, especially in Boston) they were fancy eggs, they weren’t every morning eggs for me. They didn’t come on oval plates. So I can eat eggs, just to clarify.
But for nostalgia sake they don’t compare to those plain eggs. But it’s okay with me. It’s okay for me not to try, because I know that it’s how I want it to be.
The eggs from my mom are the best because she pours all the love she has for me into them, she always has.
And that’s the best way I will ever be able to express it.
I love my mom’s scrambled eggs.