Eat Me: Nested Eggs

This week at the Farm Stand, Jess was kind enough to bestow on me one dozen fresh eggs, which quite honestly made me quake with desire.

For the eggs, I mean. Of course I am talking about the eggs.


So last night, I had this for dinner:


I called it Nested Eggs. The “Eggs” part is plural, because once I ate the first egg, I wanted another. So I made another sunnyside up egg and placed it in the nest and just kept right on going like nothing happened.

Try to keep up folks. Thing move fast around here. Nothing but two-egg dinners and big city turnips for me.

Oh yeah, turnips. Do you like turnips? Oh, sure you do. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Turnips are like the candy of the garden. They’re sweet, and fun, and easy.

Or wait. Maybe I’m thinking of my old college roommate.

No matter. Let’s make some nested eggs.

Nested Eggs


2 Tbs extra virgin olive oil

One bunch of mesclun greens. About 2-3 cups uncooked.

2 small turnips, peeled and quartered

2 small beets, peeled and quartered

One farm fresh egg. Or two, if you’re reckless and wild, like me.

Prepare the beets and turnips

Bring two small saucepans full of water to a boil and simmer the turnips in one, the beets in another. You don’t want your beets bleeding all the heck over your turnips, do you? I didn’t think so. Use two pots. Simmer for about ten minutes. Strain them separately and set them aside for now — in separate bowls.



And don’t you say a word about that little white¬†chipped bowl. That bowl is my favorite. And if you don’t have a favorite little white chipped bowl, then I suggest you examine your priorities.

The greens are ready. Are you?

Take that bundle of mixed greens firmly in your hand, roll it up tight like a crepe, and julienne it all the way down to the roots. Set them aside while you heat up the Skillet of Destiny.

You do have a Skillet of Destiny, I hope?

Very good. Let’s proceed.

Heat up one tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in the SOD, reduce heat to medium, and dump those julienned greens into that skillet like there’s no tomorrow. Have your favorite pair of tongs handy, so you can turn and toss your greens every few seconds or so, just allowing them to wilt down, coated in hot oil, and writhing with anticipatory pleasure.


Now would be a good time to arrange your hot, writhing greens into an artful little circle on your plate. Then tuck alternating bits of turnip and beets all over that. If you’re really into olive oil, like me, then you might want to drizzle a little more over this whole concoction right about now, too.

But I mean, hey. It’s your life. What do I know.

Now make with the eggs

Clean out that skillet and heat up your remaining tablespoon of olive oil. Drop your egg directly into the pan, if you’re a chump.

If you are NOT a chump, however, you might try the advanced technique of dropping your egg into an awesome little chipped white bowl, so that you can see if you accidentally dropped some pieces of eggshell in there, or if you broke the yolk, or whatever.

But hey, if you’re a chump, I guess you do what you gotta do.


Me, I like my eggs sunny side up. The trick is to cook them until they’re about two-thirds of the way done, and just when you’re wondering how you’re going to finish cooking that last bit of gross uncooked egg white before you scorch the rest, you toss in just a little film of water to coat the bottom of the pan. Like, I’m talking about a layer of water that’s two, maybe three microns thick. Cover, reduce heat to as low as you can go, and wait nervously nearby, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering if you have just ruined it all.

It’s the fear of impending doom that makes it taste so good.

After the longest 30 seconds of your life, take off the lid and turn off the heat. Scoop up that beautiful, perfectly cooked egg and ladle it tenderly into the bed you have prepared for it on your plate.


Now toss some of your finest sea salt all over this colorful landscape of perfection, and tuck in.

Yes, you may have another egg now.






6 Thoughts.

  1. It is a testament to the quality of your writing that I read all the way to the end of that recipe, despite loathing fried eggs, turnips and beets.

    But I do have a Skillet of Destiny (although strictly it is a Wok of Happy Marriage, being as it was a wedding present and oft-used).

  2. Sometimes I am amazed to discover that almost everything I use in my kitchen is either “my favorite” this or “my very special” that. Even that fork you see up there is the only one I like to eat with. It’s the only one I have that’s real silver, and from my Great Aunt Eva’s collection of random silverware.

    And then I remember this is me we’re talking about.

  3. YOU are freaking HILARIOUS. If your novel is this funny I am buying ten copies and bestowing it urgently upon my best friends. Also, I admire your egg-making abilities greatly. Brava!

  4. Well, you said you wanted to see what I was doing with your scrumptious produce. And you didn’t really expect that I could write a regular recipe like some normal person, did you? C’mon. Seriously. This is me.

  5. I am putting this on the menu for this week. Now that you’ve had farm fresh eggs you will never want another sad, dull store-bought egg. I can hardly eat an egg when the days shorten (and hens lay fewer) and my three sources of local eggs are barren.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *