Rachel sent me home with a half-dozen farm-fresh eggs on Saturday, including at least two Araucana eggs (they’re the ones with that pretty blue-gray color) and one big speckled turkey egg. I made some of them for dinner last night, topping some sourdough toast rubbed with garlic and olive oil. Also on the bread was a schmear of peppered ricotta-feta blend I made, some prosciutto (not as good as I could get in St. Louis but whatever), some Black River bleu cheese and a super springtime herb pesto.
I made the dinner, so I got the turkey egg:
I mean, can you even. Nary a filter on that motherfucker and it still kind of gives me a boner.
It’s one of the easiest things I’ve made in weeks, requiring no tools more complicated than a baking sheet, skillet, and spatula. Well, and a hand blender if you count the pesto, which I’d already made the day before for some crostini at the Derby Day party (blend chopped dill, basil, mint, parsley and spinach with minced shallot, garlic, and lemon zest. Also salt, pepper, and olive oil. Maybe some lemon juice. Spring has sprung, bitches).
I got a terrific comment from a reader with an actual blog who is not crazy (usually the likelihood of each successive thing lessens as you go down the line), and I recommend that anyone who is interested in my turkey egg or cooking in general visit them here.
One of this week’s top blog search terms is “prostitute on the southside of st louis named erin.”
I WIN EVERYTHING, EVERYBODY. Time to go turn 31 with some margaritas and, later, wake up thirsty at 2am and reeking of the tequila sweats.