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  1. I used to eat my scrambled eggs plain, no salt or pepper. That’s how I’d prepared them since childhood. Pepper grinded too coarse ruined the texture and flavor for my simple tongue. That’s how I continued to eat them into adulthood, unknowingly flavorless. And that’s how I ate most of my food at 24, trying to lose weight, the underlying feature of my daily life since I hit puberty and saw my fat thighs for the first time. Why add salt if it makes you retain water? As if water drowned my goals for a fit body, rather than keeping me afloat. I dug my fork into eggs, milky yellow like wilting roses.
  2. Sean tried to fix it for me. He showed me step by step how not to mess it up. First, heat the pan. The pan must be hot before oil makes contact—the very first ingredient fragile like this relationship. The eggs are whipped together, and then the seasoning—salt, pepper, and an experimental choice—the viscous yokes resisting the Caribbean Adobe with each whirl of the whisk. And then, all together, dumped into the pan, spurred by the spatula into a sodden pile. Voila. Scrambled eggs the right way, OK?
  3. Jason leans on the counter and shakes it all up: salt goes last because it draws moisture out and makes them runny, pepper goes first in the oil. He cites Gordon Ramsay. I roll my eyes. I don’t want dry eggs. And I’m not sure I have patience to let pepper “bloom” in oil, whatever that means. Why complicate something that should be so simple? Gordon and I both crack anger open into the bowl, beating our breakfast into submission.
  4. Reader, surely you have strong opinions to bless me with: What sweet nothings do you whisper to the yokes to make them fluffy? How many dashes of this and that are appropriate for a refined palate? Are runny scrambled eggs forgivable? Have you ever fallen for someone who made you scrambled eggs?
  5. Gordon Ramsay* says, “Scrambled eggs, like people, come in all different temperaments. They can be utilitarian, a sensible breakfast basic with little to no frills. Or they can be wild, improvised concertos.” Furthermore, “Cooking over low heat is essential for getting perfect American-style scrambled eggs. French-style scrambled eggs rely on a slow evaporation over low heat and thus are even closer to a loose porridge than the American-style, which are usually just firm enough to be served on a plate.” I rest my case.
  6. I find joy in ritual, especially when I’m alone. Alone, but still mixing in these tiny grains of flavor before pouring them into the pan, letting them be runny. I cook them on medium-low. Let things take time. I take it off early so they don’t get too dry, scrape them onto a plate. I’m not a wild, improvised concerto. I do things methodically, by muscle memory, meditating through motions.

*Technically the MasterClass staff say that.

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