River Cottage

Pictured here is an item of culinary legend from my childhood. It sits alongside magic lemon pudding as a dish that conjours up the warmest feeling for a moment of calm comfort in a childhood full of chaos and freedom. Fluffy eggs. My mum sure was good with a whisk. Essentially this is just toast and eggs, that time honoured breakfast staple. But there is something so incredible about the juxtaposition of crisp toast, melted butter, salty, peppery egg fluff and yolk, cooked just long enough to ooze into the toast. Someone cares enough about your happiness at that early hour to pick up a whisk and assemble your eggs and toast into a confection that lets the world drop away, leaving you to bask in the warm sun of their regard. In a moment of nostalgia I made these eggs for Fin. I used some thinly sliced brazil and almond bread, a generous slab of butter and lots of fresh black pepper. I was making it up a little, but everything seemed to go to plan and Fin's eyes grew as wide as saucers when he saw his breakfast sitting on a small pink plate all fluff and barely cooked yolk. I made one for me too, so I could share the moment. Our eyes met across the table and the years fell away as I saw myself again, egg yolk on my chin from licking the plate clean. You could cut the toast into a heart shape for valentine's day, but I don't think you need to state the obvious. Anyone who sees you whisking egg whites while frost is still on the grass will know you love them, without having it written on a heart shaped box.