To some, this may be the most horrifying sentence you ever read:
I love pickled eggs.
I do! My Nana used to make them constantly when I was little, always with a can of beets in the pickling liquid. Who wouldn't want to bite into a bright magenta egg, all sweet-sour and garlicky, taking just a moment to behold the beauty of that deep pink against the bright yellow of the yolk before finishing it off- three bites! Yum.
So when Nana brought us four dozen eggs from the Ferris farm in Schoharie Valley, and we balked and asked her what we were supposed to do with them, she gestured to an enormous jar we had on hand and insisted I pickle them.
Brown ones with speckles, blue ones from Arucana hens, all of them, into the pot.
I love pickled eggs.
I do! My Nana used to make them constantly when I was little, always with a can of beets in the pickling liquid. Who wouldn't want to bite into a bright magenta egg, all sweet-sour and garlicky, taking just a moment to behold the beauty of that deep pink against the bright yellow of the yolk before finishing it off- three bites! Yum.
So when Nana brought us four dozen eggs from the Ferris farm in Schoharie Valley, and we balked and asked her what we were supposed to do with them, she gestured to an enormous jar we had on hand and insisted I pickle them.
Brown ones with speckles, blue ones from Arucana hens, all of them, into the pot.
(Alas, I had no beets.)
I don't think I can wait the two months to taste them!
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