Yesterday, I was reading about deviled eggs on Tigers and Strawberries. This morning, as I was racing around the kitchen, I put on a pot of eggs to boil. I didn’t have any particular plans for them; I just had eggs on the brain. Deviled eggs are not something that I grew up eating. I actually refused to eat yolks at all until well into my teens, and only then if they were soft and runny as a dipping sauce for toast. My aunt was a lover of yolks, so hard-boiled eggs were divided between us. I never understood her enjoyment of the hard-cooked yolks with their chalky texture, which melted into a thick palate-coating purée. I just couldn’t see the allure.
Alex, on the other hand, grew up on Grandma Kitty’s deviled eggs. When we had our catering company in New York, deviled quail eggs with various accoutrements were often consumed by guests with great enthusiasm. I was always amazed at how people responded to them. Deviled eggs were something that spoke to our clients, evoking memories of their childhoods, which multiplied their enjoyment to the nth degree. I discovered the simple pleasures of savoring the rich, silky texture and slow-blooming flavors of a deviled egg. As for plain hard-boiled eggs, these days I hand all the yolks over to Alex. Some things don’t change.
Anyway, as I was peeling the eggs, I remembered how much Alex enjoys the deviled morsels. Perhaps my subconscious was headed in that direction the entire time. I split the eggs, consuming any broken or unsightly whites in the process. Then I mashed the yolks with crème fraîche, hot sauce, hot smoked paprika, a splash of sherry vinegar, salt, and pepper. I piped these back into the whites and presented them to Alex when he returned from walking the dogs.
Never one to be outdone, he whipped open his reach-in and pulled out some leftover preserved truffles. He scattered the truffles over the deviled eggs, and we’ve both been snacking ever since. It’s one of those moments when we really appreciate the pantry of a professional chef.
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