Daddy makes a mean eggs florentine.
A treat that pops up most every time I’m home. He’s sort of the strong silent type, but he speaks volumes with his cooking. Definitely an inspiration of mine.
What is eggs florentine you ask? Only the more sophisticated, stylish, and interesting cousin to the comparatively staid eggs benedict. Starting off with the same toasted english muffin, it quickly diverges into new territory with sautéed spinach and folds of cold smoked salmon, returning to its roots with the necessary poached-egg-qua-crown-jewel, and smothered in rich, unctuous hollandaise. I topped mine with some freshly chopped dill for a bright, grassy, aromatic note, and for a bit of bitterness to cut through the sauce.
Just another weekend morning in Victoria. How far away they seem, and yet how close.
Also let me just say that whoever invented the idea of cooking and egg so that it contains its own sauce and then covering that with another sauce of more egg and melted butter is a genius. It has to be one of the most classic yet underappreciated instances of witty culinary self-reference. Seriously, we’re talking MacArthur grant material here.
Someday I’ll learn my Dad’s hollandaise recipe. But for now I’ll just savour the memory of tucking in.