Is there anything closer to Heaven than Sunday morning, a cup of tea/coffee, toast and scrambled eggs? I think not. Even Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday”, perhaps the most famous love song of the rock era, was originally written as an homage to scrambled eggs.
Sure I enjoy them boiled, fried (over easy not sunny side up), poached and in an omelette. But les oeufs brouilles, as the French say, are the huevos with the mostest. How to cook scrambled eggs often leads to bitter argument. Some favor fully beating them before applying them to the heat (a similar experience to an education at a school run by Catholic nuns). Others think they should be applied to a cold skillet and stirred therein as the heat gradually increases. If you want my advice, choose what you yourself prefer and follow the counsel of no other man, in other words treat scrambled eggs like whiskey.
Moist, fluffy and served hot. I myself apply only salt and pepper, though I know people who swear by ketchup, hot sauce or Worcestershire sauce. A crucial element is time devoted to the consumption, and by that I mean time to enjoy them while suspending for a moment the cares of the World. A lazy lingering breakfast that continues well into what could have been a productive morning is critical to the full scrambled eggs experience.
I prefer eating them without human company. However, I do enjoy the company of bacon, necessarily temporary as it may be. Some vegans think the taking of dairy products is as exploitive of animals as the slaughter of them. All I can say to that is when it comes to breakfast the chicken contributes but the pig fully gives his all. I fully appreciate both of their efforts. Cholesterol paradise with a bit of the Sunday newspaper thrown in for good measure. I don’t advocate putting all of one’s eggs in a basket, but if you do, then on a Sunday morning make mine scrambled.