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A quick cheat sheet to whom it may concern: one doesn’t need to go to a culinary school (all fingers point at moi), nor be a self-trained chef (all fingers, once again: ready, aim, fire!) to make eggs like one.

On weekends, Jason and I like to sit down at our ginormous dining table for a proper breakfast, without the usual running from the refrigerator to the bathroom sink, exchanging a banana for a toothbrush, while getting ready for another work day. Most of the time, we celebrate either Saturday or Sunday with a plate of ever fabulous SCRAMBLED EGGS. The trick is to keep it fresh and versatile for there’re many years ahead of us full of chicken balls on weekends.

True, there are special occasions, like Easter for example, when I like to dress my eggs up in lace and frills.

Some days, however, I’m too hungry to fuss about their shape and form, so I simply flap my scramble-ness with an attitude (of a squash, e.g.) straight onto a plate, like I’d shown you here.

The problem with egg holidays is that they don’t come often enough. So what does one do when in the mood for some EGGstravaganza in between Easter and Hanukkah? I say adopt a holiday and turn the mundane Veterans Day, or President Day, or Labor Day for that matter into Scrambleday…

… Agi thought and so she did…

“Pancetta Italiana rendered in a hot pan, whistling a rhythmic sizzle under its nose. In the small pool of the glorious fat fresh Sage Leaves skinny dipped till crispy and fried. Next, Eggs were cracked up laughing when joining the party, seasoned with dirty salt and pepper on the rocks, they mingled and small talked with the new-found friends for life. Right when the bartender announced the last call, Ripe Gorgonzola crumbled all over the dance floor and seamlessly merged with the crowd. Instantly after the lights went off. Valets brought the plates to the front door with the toasts running. One sober gentleman, Mr. Round Cutter, offered his hand to keep the gleeful elements in shape, thus bestowing grace upon them for the last time before they reach Nirvana.”

How’s that for a recipe?

Bon Appetite!

With the above set of PISANKI, or what you call here in the U.S. EASTER EGGS, I want to wish you all a wonderful holiday filled with too much food, never enough laughter, and monkey tricks with your friends and other kids in the family.

I haven’t made pisanki in maybe two decades, and so I had a lot of fun boiling the eggs first in a pot filled with water and lots of onion skins (for the color). Then I looked around the house for a sharp tool to etch the pattern (my meat thermometer did the trick) on my Easter Eggs. To finish the job, I needed to find a little basket lined with a white, crocheted napkin. The closest to such a thing in this household were my Halloween panties I wore once with my Naughty Santa Helper outfit about three years ago. I’m glad I’ve found a use for them one more time.

I bet you’re thinking of my Panty Christmas Tree, aren’t you? Yes, my panties are quite versatile and flexible, and poses an artistic inkling.

Happy Easter Everybody! A basket of love and fuzzy thoughts to you 🙂 I’m going to eat my eggs now.

I eat Pisanki while Jason gets his Easter Scramble w/Avocado & Microgreens.

My fellow food blogger, Erika Penzer Kerekes,  asked me last week for a Polish Easter recipe to feature in her cooking column on LA Besides writing for the national website, she also feeds her private blog In Erika’s Kitchen on a regular basis.

Having been approached with the challenge, I scratched my head, pondered, sighed really loud, rolled my mouth into a tube, whistled Ravel’s Bolero, and finally called my mother. The truth is I haven’t been celebrating Easter since I left Poland close to a decade ago. And certainly not with food.

My mom reminded me of the white sausage and black pudding that we pair up with colorful Easter eggs, a big piece of a country bread, salt, pepper, and some other delicacies to be served on the Easter table for breakfast. We take samples of each and place them neatly in a basket lined with a white, crocheted handkerchief. Then kids march to the church, often lead by their parents if still in the PG-13 age group, to have their Horns of Plenty splashed with Holy Water. Back home, all that baptized food gets cut in pieces and shared among all the members of the family along with their Holiday wishes.



We settled on a cheesecake. Alright, no problem. About five seconds later I locked myself in a panic room. A CHEESECAKE?? Cheesecakes are scary! No one knows how to make a cheesecake. Hello! They come in a box, wrapped in cellophane, and with a price tag stuck to the bottom. Where do they come from? From Cheesecakeland. They grow on trees there and ripe just around Easter. Duh!

I pulled myself together at last, and got the eggs out. I whipped. I measured. I mixed. I stirred. I baked. I prayed. An hour and a half later I pulled this baby out of my oven:

I wish I had a smell-recorder to capture the aroma that had filled not only my kitchen but our entire house. I would post it here and let you sniff yourselves to sleep at night. The sweat tones circling in the air tickled my nostrils taking me on a whirlwind tour of my years of innocence. All the memories came back at once — the eggs we painted, the baskets we dressed, the holy water that splashed not only the food but also got into our eyes and wide open mouth. And the family, all the people we’re bound with through blood and/or love we have for them.

I can’t wait to show that all to Jason, when we land on Polish land in just a few short weeks.

I dressed my CHEESECAKE with rum-soaked raisins in CHOCOLATE-RUM GANACHE and let it rest in the ice-box overnight. We enjoyed that bad boy for a whole week after.

I typed up the recipe and sent it to Erika. You’ll find it on her blog on

Happy Easter!

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