Oh. My. God. I just bit into the most dee-lish-ous. Nuuuuu-trish-i-ous. Milk Chocolatey. Egg. Ok, there’s no chocolate. That would be kinda gross. Nope. I just ate some of my pickled eggs. Man, why did pickling fall out of favor? And more to the point, why did pickling eggs fall out of said favor? I remember growing up with those beautiful, Pepto-colored eggs. I was the most finicky eater, yet somehow I would eat these strange martian creations. No, not just eat. DEVOUR.
My grandmother seemed to always have a large (and by large, I mean institutionally large. Like stolen-from-a-hospital-ward large.) mayonaise jar in the fridge. And in that ridiculously large jar would be floating the most beautiful Barbie-pink eggs. Pickled Red Beet Eggs. Just the name gets me hot. Yeah, I said it. I get hot for pickled eggs. My gradnmother must have sold her soul to the devil to be such a great cook. If it weren’t for fear of eternal damnation, I would be sitting at her feet right now, dutifully transcribing all of her recipes in 8 different languages (no, I dont know more than 1. Rostetta Stone, you just lost out). But I feel that I can cheat the devil and try to recreate (nay, improve) her creations. Dare I be so bold? Yes. I dare.
So I went ahead with my plan to make my grandmother rue the day she met the devil at the crossroads (and by crossroads, I mean a small, Southeast PA suburb of Philadelphia). I went whole hog and make my pickled red beet eggs from (drum roll please)… beets that I pickled myself. You heard that Beeazlebub? I don’t need you and your pieces of silver (or Clover — remember them? — card). Yeah, I’m pickling beets myself. And not just any pickling elixer. Nope. I gots mine in red wine. Oh no she di’int! But as if that weren’t enough, I went a step further. I also pickled some cauliflower in curry. My grandmother is rolling in her grave. Except she’s not dead yet.
Ok, so I got me some pickled beets. I got me some pickled cauliflower. What does that have to do with eggs? Patience grasshopper. All will be revealed. Eat the beets. Eat the cauliflower. The throw the brine awa…. WAIT! The brine! Oh yeah. I just went there.
Get the best freakin’ eggs you can get (Meadow Run. Amen.). And don’t fuck it up when you hard cook them. If I see a green ring around the yolk, then I will hunt you donw like the dog you are. No, put the eggs in a pot. Cover them to just the top of the eggs. If they’re room temp, fill the pot with room temp water. If they’re cold, fill them with cold water. This ain’t rocket science. It’s just eggs. Put them on heat and bring to a boil. Once you got a boil, turn it off and wait 10 minutes. Chill them immediately and peel. No one, not even you, can fuck this up.
Take the leftover brine from your curry and your red beets. Bring it to a boil again and then pack the eggs in jars and fill it. Leave ’em in the fridge for at least a day. You will be rewarded.
Ok, so its true: the NY Times is running articles about hip, New Yorkers composting in their teeny apartments with worms. Been there. Done that. I’m on to pickling. Eggs. Get used to it. It’ll be hot next year. You know, when the new Great Depression comes…