By Father's Day. A holiday I've never known what to do with. When Edward was alive, I'd drive to the hardware store and buy something I didn't need, and he'd ring it up and say, "You didn't have to," and I'd say, "I know," and that was Father's Day — two men acknowledging affection through the medium of an unnecessary purchase. Since Edward died, the day belongs to me, which means David calls and Sarah calls and I sit in the chair that was Edward's chair and think about what it means to be the father now, the old man, the one the holiday is for.
David brought the kids. Teddy made me a card at school that says "Happy Father's Day Grampy" with a drawing of what I think is a tree but might be a broccoli. I told Teddy it was the finest tree I'd ever seen. He said, "It's a broccoli." Art is subjective. Anna made me a bracelet out of beads that I will never wear and will keep in my desk drawer forever. James, who is two, gave me a hug that was actually him climbing onto my lap and falling asleep, which I accept as a gift of the highest order.
I made a roast chicken. Helen's recipe, which is simple in the way that all great recipes are simple: chicken, salt, butter, lemon, high heat. The skin crisps. The meat stays moist. The kitchen smells like Sunday even though it's Saturday. Roast chicken is the meal that says: someone in this house cares enough to put a bird in the oven and wait. The waiting is the thing. Anyone can cook a chicken. Not everyone can wait.
Sarah called. Tom got a "World's Best Dad" mug from Ben, who chose it himself at the store, which means Tom now owns a mug that a four-year-old selected based on the size of the lettering. Sarah says Tom drinks from it every morning with genuine emotion. Fatherhood makes sentimentalists of us all.
After dinner I sat on the porch and thought about Edward. The whistle while he stocked shelves. The sawdust. The handshake. The silence about the war. The silence about everything that mattered, which was its own form of eloquence. I miss him the way you miss the ground when you're falling — constantly, fundamentally, without always knowing it. Father's Day. The chicken was good. The broccoli drawing is on the fridge. We go on.
The chicken was the centerpiece, but mornings after a day like that one — grandsons asleep on the couch, the porch still holding the last of the evening — call for something quieter and just as honest. These egg muffins are what I make when the house is still full and nobody needs a production: a dozen little things, savory and warm, that say someone got up and made an effort without making a fuss. Helen would have approved of that.
Egg Muffins
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 12 muffins
Ingredients
- 8 large eggs
- 1/4 cup whole milk
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese
- 1/2 cup diced bell pepper (any color)
- 1/3 cup diced yellow onion
- 1/3 cup baby spinach, roughly chopped
- 1/4 cup crumbled cooked bacon or diced ham (optional)
- Cooking spray or butter, for greasing
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 375°F. Grease a standard 12-cup muffin tin well with cooking spray or butter, making sure to coat the sides.
- Whisk the egg base. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, salt, and pepper until smooth and fully combined.
- Add the fillings. Stir in the shredded cheddar, bell pepper, onion, spinach, and bacon or ham if using. Mix until evenly distributed.
- Fill the muffin tin. Pour or ladle the egg mixture evenly into the 12 prepared muffin cups, filling each about 3/4 full.
- Bake. Bake for 18—22 minutes, until the egg muffins are puffed, set in the center, and lightly golden around the edges. A toothpick inserted in the center should come out clean.
- Cool and serve. Let the muffins rest in the tin for 5 minutes before running a thin knife around the edges and lifting them out. Serve warm.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 95 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 210mg