Allow one egg to each person that is to be served. Cut either a dry or a Virginia ham into very thin slices; allow one thin square to each person. Toast squares of bread, remove the crust. Broil the ham quickly; put each square of ham on a square of toast, put on top a poached egg, dust lightly with pepper and send to the table.
Eggs à la regence
6 eggs 1/2 cupful of chopped cold cooked ham 1 grated onion 1/2 can of chopped mushrooms 2 tablespoonfuls of butter 2 tablespoonfuls of flour 1/2 pint of chicken stock 1/2 teaspoonful of salt 1 saltspoonful of pepper
Stand the ham over hot water until thoroughly heated. Rub the butter and flour together, add the stock, stir until boiling, add the mushrooms, sliced, the salt, pepper and the onion; stand this over hot water while you poach the eggs. Dish the eggs, cover them with the sauce, strained, and cover with the chopped ham. Garnish the dish with mashed potatoes or boiled rice, and send at once to the table.
1 small egg plant 1 thin slice of ham 6 eggs 2 tablespoonfuls of sherry 2 tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup 2 level tablespoonfuls of butter 1 dash of pepper
Cut the egg plant into slices, season it with salt and pepper, dip in egg and bread crumbs and fry carefully in deep hot fat; put this on brown paper in the oven to dry. Broil the ham, cut it into squares sufficiently small to go neatly on top of each slice of egg plant. Poach the eggs, and heat the other ingredients for the sauce. Dish the egg plant on a platter, put on the ham, and on each piece of ham an egg; baste with sauce and send to the table.
Musæum Clausum, or, Bibliotheca Abscondita: Containing Some remarkable Books, Antiquities, Pictures and Rarities of several kinds, scarce or never seen.
According to John Polemon’s Description of the In 1578 battle, “These dead bodies of three kings being brought into one Pavillion, made an horrible spectacle, and wrong teares from the beholders. For what more sorrowfull and horrible a sight could there bee, than to beholde three most mightie kings, that died in one battaile, lying together. The armie of one of whom was vanquished when he lived, & after he was dead did straight waie overcome the armie of the other two kinges: and whereas all three did aspire to the kingdome of Marocco, none of them helde it.” Sir Thomas Browne had seen an ostrich “in the latter end of James his dayes, at Greenwich, when I was a schoolboy”, and later kept one in his garden, where “it soon ate up all the gilliflowers, tulip-leaves, and fed greedily upon what was green”.
Nautilus: The stubborn fact remains that, no matter how deeply we probe into the nature of bacon, eggs, oatmeal, and avocado toast—to say nothing of shakshuka, grits, bear claws, or dim sum—or the interactions between these fundamental building blocks and, say, orange juice or coffee and the morning paper, we simply have no convincing theory to explain how such disparate, seemingly inert components give rise to the phenomenon we subjectively experience as “breakfast.”
In particular, we know from the work of Scherzinger, et al. that breakfast is not located in the eggs. The chicken is involved but the pig is committed.
Oxford Archaeology’s excavation at Berryfields uncovered a wealth of evidence for Iron Age and Roman occupation at the site. They found a waterlogged pit containing what are thought to be votive deposits. Among those finds were four chicken eggs, one of which was extracted intact, making it the only complete Roman-era egg known in Britain.
Sanchuniathon’s creation arose out of mist and chaos, eventually generating something called mot, from which in time came intelligent life, initially in the form of egg-shaped beings called Zophasemin.
[I]t is uniformly when parties have run highest and the strife has been deadliest that people have been most forward to stake their existence and every thing belonging to them, on some unintelligible dogma or article of an old-fashioned creed. Half the wars and fightings, martyrdoms, persecutions, feuds, antipathies, heartburnings in the world have been about some distinction, ‘some trick not worth an egg’—so ready are mankind to sacrifice their all to a mere name!
William Hazlitt (1778-1830), “The Main-Chance,” Lectures on the English Comic Writers, with Miscellaneous Essays (London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd, 1910; rpt. 1913), pp. 235-252 (at 247):
egg (A) Something small and worthless. ‘Not worth an egg(shell)’ is proverbial (Tilley, E95, see Cor 4.4.21: ‘Some trick not worth an egg’). The egg is ‘Shakespeare’s frequent measure of insignificance.’
Nathalie Vienne-Guerrin, Shakespeare’s Insults: A Pragmatic Dictionary (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), p. 171:
December 1940. “Mrs. Richard Carter, poultry farmer of Middleboro, Massachusetts. She runs the business of one thousand poulets while her husband drives a bulldozer at an Army camp nearby.” Acetate negative by Jack Delano for the Farm Security Administration. Via Shorpy.
The egg dance was a traditional Easter game involving the laying down of eggs on the ground and dancing among them whilst trying to break as few as possible. Another variation (depicted in many of the images featured here) involved tipping an egg from a bowl, and then trying to flip the bowl over on top of it, all with only using one’s feet and staying within a chalk circle drawn on the ground.
Around the year 492, a monastery was founded in the Bay of Naples on the island of Megaride. This tiny speck of land was the site where Greek colonists from Cumae first settled. In the first century BC a magnificent Roman villa was built there by Lucius Licinius Lucullus (118-57/56 BC), a Roman consul and successful general. His name long remained attached to the complex: after it was fortified in the fifth century AD, it was known as the Castellum Lucullanum. One of its most famous residents was Romulus Augustulus, the last emperor of the Western Roman empire before it collapsed. He was exiled there after his deposition in 476.
Today the fortification is called Castel dell’Ovo or “Egg Castle”. This unusual appellation refers to a legend that the Roman poet Virgil put a magical egg in the foundations of the castle. If it had broken, the structure would have collapsed, which would have spelled disaster for the city of Naples. If you are wondering why a poet would have magical eggs in his possession, that all has to do with Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue. Written around 42 BC, the poem speaks of the birth of a savior who will rule the world.
Only favour the child who’s born, pure Lucina, under whom the first race of iron shall end, and a golden race rise up throughout the world: now your Apollo reigns.