When did we stop flipping our eggs?

An argument for over-medium

Eggs begin as hidden things—one of the most private things in the world, MFK Fisher wrote—but after they shed a shell we want them to bare all. Now that so many American eaters have become accustomed to putting an egg on basically anything in order to create a meal, we consider a yolk smiling up at us as a sign of good things to come. We worship it like the sun.

On screens and plates alike, we want our eggs yolk-first, splooging out over the rest of our food, holding nothing back. We want them boiled until jammy, always jammy, and halved like an opened locket, pristine white framing a glistening yolk. Or maybe they are olive oil-fried, basted in hot fat until their edges are lacy, whites bubbled and set, yolk untarnished and ready to pop. This has become a sort of bougie home cooking standard. You’re Frying Your Eggs In Olive Oil, Right? asked Adam Rapoport in a 2015 Bon Appétit article, taking the jocular snobbery he had turkey-basted into the brand’s editorial voice and shaming us for doing anything less. Somehow, I wrote about the basting move while permalancing there in 2016, having learned it during my years at Food52; I am not immune to a trend!

Somehow, in all this ovular obsession, we—or, more specifically, I!—have lost touch with one of the greatest ways to cook an egg: by flipping it. Left in the dust are the over-easy and over-medium eggs of diners past present and future, one of the most satisfying ways to eat this essential food.

I have, recently, revived the over-medium egg in my own kitchen. The resurgence began with a crankeronious frustration. After years of topping my weeknight pastas and fried rice with a fried egg—lacy edges, high heat, plenty of olive oil, high-octane sputtering, a vicious but delicious way to treat an egg—I grew tired of getting up halfway through my dinner to grab a knife. This is not an egg you can cut through with the dull friendly edge of a fork. Those crispy edges that [redacted food personality] and friends have been peddling us are wonderful on a sandwich but if I am eating something you might consider a lazy meal the whole point is minimal muscular effort between bowl and mouth.

An over-easy or over-medium egg, on the other hand, is one of the gentlest things you can feed yourself. First of all it looks like clip-art; it is friendly. Second of all you can eat it with a fork. Or even a spoon if for some reason you need to. It will comfort you with memories of diner breakfasts past; it asks for little more than a piece of buttered toast.

And there is something cheekily chaste about a flipped egg. I don’t mean to slut-shame here, I harbor the same weakness for a gleaming perfect obvious yolk that everyone else does, we all slice into a sunny-side up egg with Outkast’s “Spread” subconsciously playing. But a flipped yolk slyly refuses to show its cards; it hides its gooey orange insides until the moment the fork hits. It is not food for show, it is food for me. And while an over easy egg is wonderful—molten egg yolk is one of the most luxurious foods we have, especially when swirled into broth—I have come to love an over medium egg, still glowing orange inside but firm enough at its core that you can actually eat a bite of yolk, rather than hastily wipe it up off the plate before it congeals. You get the sludgy yolk of a “jammy” soft-boiled egg without having to boil water, and with the delicious addition of the olive oil or butter you cooked it in.

Of course, flipping an egg requires finesse. It’s not nearly as hard as poaching an egg—no matter what you heard me say after some beginner’s luck last winter I still haven’t figured it out—but it risks failure. Flip too harshly and you’ll break your yolk, though again, I don’t think that’s so bad here; you’ll still have a mostly molten center if you get it off the pan in time.

I’ve been making mine in a small cast-iron skillet with the help of a good silicone spatula, what my maternal grandfather would have called a flip-and-dumper, and that’s just what we’re doing here. While I love my fish spatula dearly, it’s not friendly to the delicate yolk of an egg. I heat the pan for a few minutes on medium-low, then add in some olive oil, maybe a sliver of butter too. A few teaspoons of fat will do. Crack in your egg and let it cook until the whites are mostly set, but those closest to the yolk are still clear. Gingerly slide your spatula under the egg, and flip decisively. Like any terrifying kitchen task, this will make you feel powerful. You have agency over your food! Cook on the second side for 30 seconds or so and you’ll have a beautiful, gentle, over-medium egg.

noodle egg, perfect egg

This week I have eaten an egg on buttered toast, on lentil salad, over a bowl of the Trader Joe’s squiggly knife-cut noodles which are great but the sauce does need aggressive doctoring or replacement. Perhaps my favorite fried egg vehicles are Julia Turshen recipes, both from her excellent cookbook Small Victories: kimchi fried rice¹, and yogurt eggs². Listen, it’s an egg. I don’t need to tell you how to eat it, but for some reason I have tried.

1. As recommended in the book, I like mine with bacon: fry sliced bacon in the pan, scoop it out but leave the fat, proceed with the recipe, then stir the bacon in at the end. A perfect food.

2. And yes I know that this recipe calls for sunny-side up but there’s something so soothing about the dish when it is essentially monochromatic.