I used to hate eggs as a child, as I sat at the breakfast table and watched the adults wolf down fried eggs with uncooked whites hanging from their forks. Nothing filled me with greater dread than the anticipated Sunday-morning trial by egg. Appreciation of this intimidating food was one of the many mysteries of adulthood.
It took me years to grow to realize how versatile eggs are, taking their place in dishes as massively complex as oeufs Carème, which takes a staff of five two days to make, as refined as the recipe from Le Cuisinier Royal of 1839 that calls for the pressed juices of twelve spit-roasted ducks to be poured over fifteen poached eggs, or as simple as the dishes I shall present here.