Mark made me and another colleague toasted homemade bread and fried eggs the other day. I was lucky enough to meet the hen responsible—one of two yard birds that linger by the kitchen door waiting for handouts—and even luckier to watch Mark cook it. The butter came from nearby too and smelled like earth and grass and milk caramel as it sizzled. Once the edges of the whites began to sputter, in went more fat. When Mark tipped the skillet, an ombré of butter pooled for basting. He captured a tablespoon full and bathed the top of the egg with it, the pan angled over the burner but not enough for the egg to cool down or slide. He repeated this basting action once or twice more. Trust me: This egg was perfect when it hydroplaned onto my plate. (See that butter foaming by the fork?) I just couldn’t wait another minute.
– Kerri Conan