An Eggscellent Evening

My family is somewhat small and scattered all over the East Coast, stretching from Maine down to Florida. Despite the miles between us, I’ve always been lucky enough to call my aunts and uncles not just family, but true friends. Most of our cousins were born within five years of one another, which means every gathering somehow feels less like generations colliding and more like an ongoing dinner party that simply pauses between visits.

This weekend, my aunt and uncle traveled down from Maine to spend time with my mom. My uncle is my mother’s brother, and with our Norwegian roots and my Swedish aunt folded into the mix, there’s always been a distinctly Scandinavian flavor to our family traditions. Cozy. Warm. Quietly sentimental. Also heavily dependent on carbs and coffee or tea.

I could share everyone’s names, but honestly there won’t be a quiz at the end, so let’s keep moving.

What I will share is that this side of the family gave me my lifelong love of soft-boiled eggs and toast. Not just the breakfast itself, but the ceremony of it all. In our family, a soft-boiled egg was never tossed onto a plate like some common scrambled peasant. It was presented properly in a beautifully crafted ceramic egg cup. Many came straight from Sweden or Norway, tiny little treasures wrapped in tissue paper and handed over like heirlooms. Somehow those egg cups made breakfast feel elegant, even if you were eating in pajamas with bedhead and one sock on.

There’s also an art to the perfect soft-boiled egg. Timing is everything. Too little and you’re drinking breakfast. Too much and you’ve ruined the whole point. But when it’s right? Pure comfort.

This visit came together somewhat last minute, so we quickly pulled together a casual dinner at my mom’s house with my sister and brother-in-law. Somewhere in the middle of setting the table and refilling iced tea glasses, I started feeling sentimental. Really sentimental. The kind that sneaks up on you as you watch everyone talking and laughing in the kitchen while your brain quietly whispers, these moments won’t happen forever.

I hope that’s not true anytime soon, but lately those thoughts have started creeping in more often.

Naturally, my mind wandered to the egg cups.

Yesterday, since I had the day off, I made it my mission to find some. I mapped out a few antique shops in the next town over and headed out like a woman on a highly specific Scandinavian breakfast-related treasure hunt.

The first antique shop had a young girl at the counter who seemed so thrilled to finally have a customer that I’m not entirely sure she heard a single word I said. I asked if they carried egg cups and she immediately replied, “No, but would you be interested in a crystal decanter that just came in?”

No thank you, ma’am. I’m here on egg business.

Second shop? I’m fairly certain the girl working there couldn’t have spelled the word egg if I spotted her the “E.”

Alrighty then.

Next stop: HomeGoods. Surely among the seventeen thousand decorative pillows and seasonal hand towels, I could locate one tiny egg cup.

I marched in with purpose. As I cruised down an aisle, I spotted an employee stocking shelves. Perfect. I asked, “Do you happen to know if you carry egg cups?”

She smiled politely, turned around, and picked up a tiny bowl about the size of something you’d use to serve pistachios at a cocktail party. As the word no floated toward my lips, my peripheral vision kicked in. Shark eye activated.

There they were.

Two actual egg cups. Sitting quietly on the shelf waiting for me like they knew I was coming.

I practically shouted, “Look at this! Egg cups!”

The employee rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh man, I thought those were shot cups.”

And immediately all I could think of was the line from Ferris Bueller, “I weep for the future.”

Tonight my aunt opened her gift. I added little plates for toast, a glass-blown mug, and tea to complete the breakfast experience. As she read the card, I told her that every single time I make soft-boiled eggs, I think of her. I think of our family. I think of childhood kitchens and laughter and those simple mornings that somehow became lifelong memories without any of us realizing it at the time.

We may not see each other often, but I never forget how I feel when I’m around her. Safe. Happy. Content.

Funny how something as small as an egg cup can hold an entire lifetime inside it.