My dear egg,

I don’t know what it is about you. I love you. Yes, I think I do.

Without you, I wouldn’t and couldn’t be what I am today. What’s a pastry cook without her eggs? She’s nothing. A nobody. Zilch.

In most recipes I can replace flour, I can vary sweeteners, and substitute butter with oil. But, my dear egg, I cannot and will not ever find another you.

That’s not only because I don’t want to, mon oeuf, but also because I can’t. Tu as ma coeur. You give my souffles the will to rise, my fragile meringues the strength to stand, my custards the richness and body they demand. You’re so much more than yolk and white — you’re life. When I prepare to bake, I don’t just get all my ducks in a row. I get my eggs.

This year I’d like to have you, honorable egg, as my Valentine. Is that strange? Well so what. I feel fondly for my eggs and I want them to know that. Whether scrambled, baked, poached, or fried, they’ve provided me with so many frugal, delicious meals and more baked goods than I could ever count. I whole-heartedly believe that they deserve a whole lot of love, guys.

Let us all dedicate a bit of this Valentine’s day to the unctuous, luxurious goodness of the egg. Let’s stack a steamy sirloin burger onto an eggy brioche bun, slide a sunny-side-up egg on top of that, and slather it all with dijon mayo and ketchup. If want to go the extra mile for the humble egg, feel free to top off the meal with a yolk-rich chocolate pot de creme, a scoop of custard ice cream, and maybe a glass of good ol’ boozy egg nog.

On Valentine’s Day I intend to enjoy enough eggs to satisfy my intake for the whole year.

Or not.

I foresee a morning after breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. Or maybe some cherry clafoutis. Or maybe a quiche? Yeah. I think I’d like some quiche.

Love,
Diana