Hash Brown Nests With Portobellos And Eggs

Christmas. My Christmas, not Brian's — the custody calendar gave me Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, and Brian gets her for New Year's. The arithmetic of shared holidays: each parent gets half of the magic, and the child gets the exhausting privilege of double celebrations.

Christmas Eve: I made tonjiru — the pork and vegetable miso soup that is heartier than regular miso soup, the winter version, thick with root vegetables and pork belly and the richness that December requires. Miya and I ate it on the couch watching a Christmas movie and the scene was so perfectly domestic, so exactly what I imagined when I imagined life after Brian, that I wanted to photograph it and frame it next to Fumiko's recipe cards: evidence that the leaving was worth it. Evidence that two people are a family. Evidence that the table doesn't need a third person to be full.

Christmas morning: Miya opened presents. Books (always books, from me). A cooking set — real, child-sized, not a toy. A new backpack for the two-house commute. From Brian: a dollhouse. From Barbara: another handmade sweater. From Ken: a small envelope containing twenty dollars, because Ken expresses love in round numbers and small denominations and the gesture is both inadequate and perfect, the way Ken himself is both inadequate and perfect as a father.

I made tamagoyaki for Christmas breakfast, the way I did last year, the way I will do every year: the Japanese daughter's Christmas morning, the rolled egg, the rice, the miso soup from the chipped bowl. The continuity matters more this year than last, because this year continuity is the thing I am building from scratch. The marriage provided continuity by default — you wake up in the same house with the same person and the continuity is structural. Alone, continuity is a choice. I choose miso soup. I choose tamagoyaki. I choose the chipped bowl. I choose the recipe cards on the wall. I choose the morning. I choose the practice. The practice is the continuity. The continuity is the life.

I called Fumiko — not literally, not on the phone, but in the kitchen, out loud, the way I do sometimes when I am alone and the grief is a physical presence: "Merry Christmas, Obaachan." The kitchen was quiet. The candles flickered. The miso soup steamed. Fumiko did not answer. Fumiko never answers. But the kitchen smelled like dashi and the smell was its own kind of response.

I’ll always make tamagoyaki on Christmas morning — that’s Fumiko’s gift to me, the ritual I carry forward. But this year I also wanted something to share with Miya that felt festive and a little special, something that could hold everything a morning is supposed to hold: warmth, a little effort, the satisfaction of a thing with a shape. These hash brown nests do exactly that — they’re sturdy and golden and they cradle something precious at the center, which felt exactly right.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 40 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

3 cups frozen shredded hash browns, thawed and patted dry
2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon salt, divided
1/4 teaspoon black pepper, divided
1 cup portobello mushrooms, finely diced (about 2 medium caps)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
6 large eggs
2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Fresh chives or parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat oven to 400°F. Generously grease a standard 6-cup muffin tin with cooking spray or butter, making sure to coat the sides well.
Season the hash browns. In a large bowl, toss the thawed, dried hash browns with 1 tablespoon olive oil, garlic powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/8 teaspoon pepper until evenly coated.
Form the nests. Divide the hash brown mixture evenly among the 6 muffin cups. Press the mixture firmly up the sides and across the bottom of each cup to form a nest shape, leaving a well in the center for the filling.
Par-bake the nests. Bake for 12–15 minutes, until the edges begin to turn golden and crisp. Remove from oven and set aside.
Cook the mushrooms. While nests bake, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add diced portobello mushrooms and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5–6 minutes until softened and any moisture has evaporated. Add minced garlic and thyme; cook 1 minute more. Season with remaining salt and pepper. Remove from heat.
Fill and bake. Spoon a heaping tablespoon of the mushroom mixture into each par-baked nest. Carefully crack one egg into each nest on top of the mushrooms. Sprinkle with Parmesan.
Finish baking. Return the muffin tin to the oven and bake for 10–12 minutes, until egg whites are fully set but yolks are still slightly soft, or until cooked to your preference.
Serve. Let nests rest in the pan for 2 minutes, then gently loosen the edges with a small offset spatula or butter knife. Lift out carefully, garnish with fresh chives or parsley, and serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Hash Brown Nests With Portobellos And Eggs — The Morning I Choose Every Year