As those of us who read our Bible and listen to our “Jesus Christ Superstar” know, Jesus took a loaf of bread and a fish and fed millions of people. Despite all the messianic implications, I took two loaves of bread and fed myself twice.
Last night, there was salad, soup and bread. Pictured you will see two of the three components. Can you guess which is missing?
Then, tonight, before my excruciating Negotiations class I had to think fast. I wanted something (a) yummy; (b) quick; (c) based on ingredients I already had; and (d) complimentary to the bread. I chose a classic American dish; evocative of clear blue vistas, of Edward Hopper paintings, and of a counselor at the Kutcher’s day camp who horrified me when I was nine* (more later). I chose egg salad.
I told my grandmother I was making egg salad at 4:30 and she proceeded to read me a 90 page article from the Sun-Sentinel that she had clipped all about how to make the perfect egg salad.
“Listen, this is very interesting,” she said. “To avoid green centers to the eggs, avoid overcooking them. Start by…”
“Grandma, I know,” I pleaded, but she wouldn’t listen to reason.
Anyway, after she got through the 90 pages, the Negotiations class was over, the sun had set, risen, set and risen I was starved and I made the egg salad. I used Sarah Moulton’s trick (echoed in Grandma’s article) of starting the eggs in cold water without a lid; turning it up to a boil, and when it hits boiling taking it off the heat, covering, and letting it sit for 17 minutes.
I peeled them under the faucet and did a very Martha-Stewart-like-thing when, instead of mashing them with a fork, I sliced them into perfect squares. I then proceeded to add way too much mayonaisse, yet just the right amount of salt and pepper. The bread was a little difficult to cut but I finally got the knife through. And here’s the end result; a healthy all-American dinner:
As for my camp counsellor*, it’s one of those horrific visual memories that carve themselves into your brain at a young age and pop up intermittently for the rest of your life. In this case, a curly-haired pimpled camp counsellor with a mustache was sitting at my lunch table and she [warning, the following is incredibly graphic and disturbing] proceeded to eat her egg salad sandwich, eggy mayonaisse oozing out of her hair-flecked lips. I remember being so disgusted I vowed then and there to start a culinary revolution, using a robust communication tool that would reach readers across the continents, spreading the joy and wisdom of careful, joyous non-oozing food consumption. Oh well. Maybe one day.