A New Eggs A Poach'ing.

It's raining here. it's been raining for days. That is good and bad. It's good because our land has been SO dry here all summer. Being Minnesotan means you get comments about the brutal winters but shock when you tell them how hot and muggy it gets here in the summer. Anyways, the rain is long overdue but now it's pouring on us in droves, the land can't drink up all of the water. I also have the day off. And since I do — when I should be focusing on reogranizing my life's materials (unpacking, sorting, elimintating) I have chosen to cook myself a familiar old friend. The poached egg.

The poached egg for me is a childhood memory of being woken by my Grandmother Ruth early in the morning around seven bells. I was asked to get dressed and to meet her in the kitchen. I was a hard kid to rouse. I was cranky. But everyday I got up to my Nana standing in the kitchen, holding a hot curling iron ( She was a Beautician afterall) and making me poached eggs to be deliciously dumped on a piece of warm buttered toast.

I haven't had a poached egg since I was a child. At some point there, in my childhood - I had refused eggs. I stopped eating them because of a science experiment of raising chickens in the classroom that had gone bad. And then, I grew up, moved out, and lost her to a really traumatic and drawn out chain of events. That was 7 years ago, this time of year. And I find that in the times I need strength most, she shows up persistently in my thoughts. Oh I miss her so.

Today reminds me of my Nana Ruth. So today I will make poached eggs. On toast. For the first time in more than 15 years. It's a day of needed comfort and warm memories over warm bread (wheat-free, of course).