Dippy Eggs

It wasn't really until I left my parent's house in 1983 that I learned that there were ways of preparing foods other than the usual ones in which Mom had always made them.  Oh, sure, I knew that there were restaurant meals that weren't quite like the ones I was used to having all my life, and now and then I'd be treated to something one of my aunts would make that was different from the typical fare I got at home.  Now and then Dad and I would go to a breakfast or a dinner at the church and the grub would be different there too, but for the most part much of what I ate as a kid was more or less the same kind of stuff I had at our own table.

Once a week, on Sunday mornings, Dad would get up early and make breakfast of bacon and eggs for Mom, my sister and me.  The eggs were scrambled.  Other than those scrambled eggs, hard boiled, and their variation of deviled were the only eggs I grew up knowing.  I'd heard about soft boiled eggs, poached eggs, eggs over easy, and other ways that eggs were prepared in my boyhood travels, but they weren't anything that sounded appealing enough for me to ask Mom or Dad for something different from what we usually had by way of bird ova prepared for family consumption.

It wasn't until only a few years ago when I was a guest in the home of an elderly gentleman, that something with a runny yolk was put before him that made my adult palate, now accustomed to trying all sorts of new things just for the sake of trying them, stand up and take notice.  A little paranoid about consuming something without a fully cooked egg, I wasn't quite ready to join him in his usual breakfast fare, but I knew, especially after watching him eat his "dippy eggs" as they were called there, that the day was coming on which I'd sample them.

Eventually that day came when, on a visit, I was asked what I'd like for breakfast and I opted for the dippy eggs.  The whites were done perfectly with a ton of pepper as I prefer them, but it was the liquidy yolks about which I still had reservations - until I broke that first leaky circle of sunshine, dipped the edge of my rye toast into it and brought it to my mouth with just a bit of the adjacent white for good measure.  The dippy eggs were delicious!

The gentleman whose dippy eggs were my first visual invitation to trying them is gone now, but I remember him fondly every time, as I did this morning, I break through the white of my egg to allow a bit of the runny yolk to ooze out.  Similarly, I think so often of my Uncle Andy who gave me my first ride on a scooter about fifty years ago when I mount the Piaggio and fire it up for another adventure to nowhere in particular.  It's good to try new things.  I often have to remind myself of that, and battle with my own reservations at times.  I'm grateful for novel experiences and for the dear folks who make them available to me.