EGGS

("Eggmerica" from the Accidental Geography series at Strange Maps.)

A good short order cook can make eggs you remember the rest of your life. I remember eggs from Buntyn's in Memphis, a diner called Three Sisters in Denton, Texas, Ruby's and Duboce Diner in San Francisco, and the breakfast combo at Biff's in Oakland that came with real grits and Louisiana sausage so hot I had to suck down two fountain cokes to get through it. Lisa Fulton at the still-missed Forray's Diner here in Austin could turn out eggs over medium just exactly to my preference -- she called them Meg's Eggs in my honor. (I was such a regular customer I had a plaque with my name on it marking the stool at the counter where I alway sat.)

But the best eggs in my life remain those my Daddy scrambled. He hated chickens yet loved eggs. After they lost their cotton farm during the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma, his mother kept the family alive by starting a small cafe, and she taught Daddy how to cook eggs. Unlike omelets, Daddy said the secret to good scrambled eggs was taking your time, letting them fluff and cook slowly so they came out mounded , creamy, and bounding with moist flavor.

In the morning he'd stand at the stove barefoot and barechested, wearing creased khakis, telling bad jokes in his soft voice while watching his eggs and stirring every now and then. He akways gave me more than he put on his own plate, and I never argued with his generosity.