I’m a dinner-all-day kind of girl, but I occasionally eat traditional breakfast. When I eat eggs, I like them poached. A good Eggs Benedict is damn hard to beat.  

Bless you, Lemuel Benedict, for blackout drinking one night in 1894 and stumbling into the Waldorf Hotel the following morning in search of a hangover cure, ordering buttered toast, poached eggs, crisp bacon, and a hooker of Hollandaise. (Oh, how I want to omit the last two words of the previous sentence.) Thus, Eggs Benedict was born. 

The poached egg is a fickle mistress. The method and timing must be precise, or she will harden to your affections, or worse, leave you for toast. 

I’m a practiced home chef, but admittedly struggle with the poached egg. I know I’m not alone, because preparing a perfectly cooked, velvety-yolked, poached egg is often a “pressure test” for people competing in cooking challenges. You can taste the disappointment and anguish when the poach ends in disaster and an unnecessarily agitated Gordon Ramsay “PISS OFF!”  

Over the years, I have tried several methods of preparation: the extra gentle pour into a simmering saucepan, the swirling of water in accordance with the earth’s magnetic field, and even the addition of vinegar—all without consistent or particularly palatable results. 

I also have kitchen-tested several egg-cooking gadgets. An electric egg cooker that sputtered out rubbery atomic shapes with crispy bubbled edges. An egg cooking tagine, when microwaved, blew its top and produced electromagnetic, half-hard-cooked yolks. A leaky, floating silicone “poach pod” that acted like a life raft for egg refugees bobbing toward the promise of freedom but going nowhere. The best result came from my mom’s old Aristo Craft pan, fitted with stainless steel inserts designed especially for poaching eggs. Still, the pan came in 7 parts, needed non-stick spray, and the unnatural puck shape was off-putting—a far cry from the delicately subtle result when an egg is simply simmered in water inside a covered pan. 

… 

When my daughter, Evin, was in the 3rd grade, she met a blue-eyed, beachy-haired wisp of a boy named Tyler. Kids called him “Kitty,” a nickname Tyler tolerated until middle school. One day during recess, Kitty stole Evin’s hat. She chased him down, and they became best friends. 

She had him, and he had her, and that was that. They formed the kind of easy, essential bond you wait a lifetime to find. I thought it fortunate for them to have found each other so soon. When Tyler moved away, they were devastated and desperate. The three hours that now separated them seemed final and forever. His parents and I recognized the importance of their relationship, and we did our best to keep them together. They stayed each other’s confidant and defender through the uncertainty and fog of growing up. 

Tyler’s birthday and Valentine’s Day were approaching, and he chose to spend the weekend with us. At long last, he had arrived! Once more, our house was alive with laughter—the lonely and greys chased away. 

I’ve never been much for romantic holidays, but solitude has a funny way of making you reconsider the sweetness of tradition. On Valentine’s Day morning, I woke to the smell of cooking bacon and incense and the sound of Tyler sassy rapping Nicki Minaj. 

I was happy to find the two making breakfast in the kitchen, entirely at home with each other. Well, more Tyler was making breakfast with my daughter acting in her usual “supervisory” role. He had just learned to make poached eggs in culinary class and said he was making me Eggs Benedict for breakfast with homemade Hollandaise.  

“Tyler, you are a blessing,” I said. 

“I know,” he giggled. 

I noticed he had my smallest cast iron skillet on the stove, three-quarters full of simmering water. 

A CAST IRON SKILLET?! What sorcery was this? What kind of off-grid egg poaching technique were they teaching in culinary arts class? 

I did not question the magic aloud. Instead, I sat quietly and watched. 

I sat, watched, and learned. I listened to those kids fill the kitchen with joy, and I ate perfectly poached Eggs Benedict. 

Best Valentine’s Day ever.