Today we’re bringing you an essay from our Community Voices – authentic stories relating to families and food, with recipes from our community members. Kristen Moraine shares a story about her family’s tradition sharing Christmas breakfast together, eating Eggs California.
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Eggs California
By Kristen Moraine
“That’s too much cheese,” my mom says, peering over Gram’s shoulder and into the giant silver bowl. Gram scoffs and dumps more cheese in. She stirs.
“Throw it all in,” my aunt says from her post on the other side of the kitchen counter. “It’s Christmas.”
“But one pound?” My mom eyes the creased and stained recipe on the counter and Gram nudges her back with a bump of the hip.
“You’re in charge of the avocados,” Gram says. She stirs again, this time adding the green chilis. “But not yet. I’ll tell you when.”
We all know by now that the timing is key. Once Gram puts the dish in the oven it’ll be 40 minutes, and Mom will start slicing the avocados with 10 minutes left on the clock so that the avocados are at their best. Mom always arranges the fresh slices in a pretty green fan on a white porcelain plate. That’s when we know it’s go-time. Eggs California is only Eggs California once the avocados rest on top with a dollop of sour cream and salsa. If the avocados aren’t right, you just have a casserole. Mom knows this and gives the avocados a squeeze now, testing them.
“Think these are ready?” she asks, handing one to me. I give it the obligatory squeeze and then pause, considering.
“Perfect.” I nod and hand it back. I know my role here—sous to the sous.
Gram is done mixing and wipes her hand on the towel draped over her shoulder. She pauses, her breathing a sound caught somewhere between a hum and a whoosh. I always strain to listen, to hear the tune that’s in her head as she works, but it’s clearly only meant for her. These days I wonder if it’s really singing, or the sound of too much exertion.
My brother appears and picks up the casserole dish before Gram can lift it.
“All set?” he asks, but he moves before she can answer or object to the job being done for her. It impresses me every time, how he helps without ever making her feel she needs it.
This is the trick with Gram, a woman who has been wife, mother, nurse, business owner, volunteer and friend, but never the one to need any help herself. Until now.
After setting the dish in the oven, my brother picks at the fruit plate on the counter. Gram smacks his hand. “We’ll be out of raspberries,” she says.
“Last one. Two,” he says and pops two more in his mouth. His smile turns Gram’s mouth at the corners even as she tsk tsk’s him out of the kitchen.
“Set the table,” she tells him.
“On it.” He tosses placemats onto the table like frisbees with a fwoosh for all twelve as they slide across the surface, but then his wife pulls him away. The new baby, the dirty diaper, the sleep schedule…
I finish the table and look for those pretty little dishes for the jam. No one remembers exactly when we started adding croissants to this meal, but it was probably Gram’s idea. In her world no breakfast is complete without butter and jam, and the croissants are the perfect vehicle for both. Sure the croissants are French and Eggs California is inspired by Mexican fare, but it’s also true that Gram discovered the dish not in California but in Washington State on Whidbey Island, where they likely didn’t have many avocados on hand. The origins and regional assignments don’t matter, but the tradition does. And in our family, Christmas morning isn’t complete until we’ve had Eggs California. Once the kids have finished ripping open presents and we’ve all had dozens of Christmas cookies (chased with too much coffee for the adults) Gram starts mixing.
—> Behind the Paywall: Read the rest of Kristen’s story and her family’s recipe for Eggs California . . .
“The kids” used to mean my brothers and me, but it’s been a long time since we were the ones scrambling out of bed in the early dark to run to the tree. So much has changed now–my brothers and their new young families tumble out of their cars when they pull up to the house, and my boyfriend and I stayed at a hotel in town before driving over for breakfast this morning. But we’re here in this house in California together, and Gram is down from Washington, staying for longer than usual this time.
“The weather is dreadful in January,” she says of Washington.
We agree, and we’re all grateful for this excuse to hold her here with us a little longer. We’re hoping she’ll stay until Spring, Summer even. As long as possible. We just need her to stay, knowing full well she won’t, can’t.
“Crazy eights?” I ask her now. I want her to sit down. Get off her feet.
“The jam,” she says.
“Done,” I say. “Nothing to do but wait.”
“And the garnish?”
“They’ve got it,” I motion to my mom and aunt by the fridge. They’re debating which dishes to use for the salsa and sour cream, as if this display will make or break it all.
Gram settles into her chair by the fireplace in the other room and I pull up a seat next to her. My sisters-in-law are on the couch with the babies between them, one in arms and the other toddle-bouncing on the floor below, testing her chubby legs by pulling up on the couch to stand, plop, stand, plop. Gram smiles at the babies, at the women holding them. I see her exhale, relax. We can hear that my brother has challenged my boyfriend to yet another game of ping-pong out in the yard, and the steady plunk plunk of their game is interrupted by the occasional “ahhhh!” or “noooo!”
I’m just about to shuffle the cards and deal when Gram gets up again.
“Where are you going?”
“Drinks,” Gram says. “Water glasses. And mimosas. Are we doing mimosas?”
I try to tell her I’ve already put out the water glasses, and we can decide on mimosas and pour them later, but she’s already heading back to the kitchen. I guess a woman who has run her own bed and breakfast for over 20 years can’t rest until breakfast is done. So I walk with her to the dining room and help her move around the glasses, the bowls, the butter and jam dishes until they look just right and the table is officially ready.
The oven beeps. My stepdad is already there with the oven mitts.
“Kathy? The avocados?” Gram’s standing just at the edge of the kitchen now, directing traffic. But at this point, we all know what to do. How many years now have we done this dance, come together over this dish? Gram taught us all the moves long ago, and we feel this rhythm as steadily as a heartbeat. Sensing this, Gram sits at the table and waits for us to join her. Once we’re all settled, elbows and shoulders touching and nudging, we take in the dishes before us, beautiful and bright, warm and ready.
There is a pause, and then Gram says, “Merry Christmas! Let’s eat!”
***
Seventeen years later, I drive to my Gram’s old house to clean. The family is coming up from California for the holidays, and I’m now the one holding down the Washington homestead. Gram left us long ago, but her house is still here, and soon it will be filled with the voices and footfalls of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I don’t know where everyone will sleep when they get here. Between my house and Gram’s house, there should be enough beds, but do I have enough sheets and pillows? If it rains the whole time, can we set up the ping-pong table in the garage? What if the plumbing goes in this old house? And how can I stop the water seeping through the kitchen window every time it rains? Turns out the weather isn’t just dreadful in January up here.
There is so much I don’t know. So much I can’t control or predict, including whether or not my own kids will be sick…it seems every Thanksgiving and Christmas we find a fun new variety of stomach virus or flu to pass around to everyone in the family like playing cards.
But as I stand in Gram’s kitchen, open her cupboards and take in the little glass dishes, the serving bowls and pretty trays, I realize that I know one thing with absolute certainty: we’ll have Eggs California. We’ll toast to Gram, as we so often do, and we’ll hear her steady hum as we cook and play and eat and laugh together. That’s all we really need.
Eggs California
Yield: Serves 10-12
ACTIVE TIME: 30 min. TOTAL TIME: 1 1/2 hours
From your pantry: salt (to taste)
Ingredients:
- 10 eggs
- 1 pint cottage cheese
- 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
- 1 Tbsp baking powder
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 1/2 c. butter (melted, can use slightly less)
- 1 lb. cheddar cheese or jack/cheddar cheese combo (shredded)
- 4 oz. can mild green chiles (chopped, can use slightly less)
For garnish:
- 2-3 avocados
- sour cream
- salsa
Directions:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease a 9×13” casserole dish.
- In a mixing bowl, beat together the eggs, cottage cheese, flour, baking powder, salt, and melted butter.
- Stir in the shredded cheese and chopped green chiles.
- Bake for 30-45 minutes.
- Garnish with sliced avocado, sour cream and salsa. Serve & enjoy!
About:
Kristen Moraine earned an MFA in creative writing from the University of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Teachers and Writers Magazine, The Gyroscope Review, Literary Mama, and Every Day Fiction. She is a mom, writer, and English teacher living in the Pacific Northwest with her family.
