Eggs are by far one of the most difficult dishes to make for a brunch. Unless you hire someone to work an omelet station, you’re probably going to resort to a frittata or quiche to serve to a group. But even then, you have to slice and serve it… and I was kind of aiming for little to no work during this brunch, you get me? Enter personal sized frittatas.
These are hilariously easy, and although gruyere is on the pricey side, it has that decadent flavor that makes this dish taste way more high end than it actually is.
On the menu:
Mini ham and gruyere frittatas
Makes 12 frittatas
8 large eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup grated gruyere
6 oz. smoked ham, diced into small chunks
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray a muffin tin with cooking spray.
In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, pepper, and salt until foamy. Fold in the ham and gruyere. Pour into the muffin tins until the cups are almost full.
Bake for 12 – 15 minutes or until the eggs are puffed up and slightly browned. Serve hot.
Filed under Cooking, Recipes
This past weekend I flew down to Norfolk, Virginia for a little R&R. One of the reasons I love going down south is obviously, the food. I don’t know if you’ve noticed a recurring theme here in this blog, but I love comfort food. Love. It. So we always make a point to hit Waffle House when we go to Norfolk. If you don’t know Waffle House, then I don’t know you.
Let it be known that I have a couple rules when it comes to my baked goods, and that includes waffles. Rule #1: no nuts. I absolutely 100%, no exceptions, hate nuts in my baked goods. In my opinion, they ruin the whole cakey, doughy confection.
So um… I ordered the pecan waffle. It is literally the ONLY exception to my nut-less rule, and it is so very worth it. Crispy on the outside, fluffy in the middle, and it’s thin. You won’t find any three inch thick Belgian waffle here. Just a thin, delicious waffle like God intended: with pecans.
And to wrap it all up, hashbrowns, Waffle House style. It’s like a different language down there. Smothered, covered, scattered, filtered, muffled, crumpled, scuttled… Okay, those last four don’t count. But look at this perfection. Ignore the blatant slice of American cheese on there. Somehow it tastes fresh off the farm.
Going to Virginia always makes me realize one thing: if I lived down there all the time, I’d weigh 863 pounds. For sure.
Country Ham Biscuit
This was a weekend chock-full of amazing eats. So for the next three days, I’m going to regale you with stories of what I ate in a two day span. Prepare yourself. It’s a lot of food for one small lady, but I ate so I could report back to YOU. Seriously, you should be thanking me. And sending donations for a gym membership.
Egg 135 N. 5th Street, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY. Egg is a tiny white-walled hallway of a restaurant with a focus on Southern-style dishes. My lovely friend Sasha has been raving about this inexpensive brunch spot for months (“the biscuits! my GOD, the biscuits!”) so her sojourn into town from DC was a perfect excuse to make the trek to this neighborhood I otherwise steer clear of. Too much ironic-disheveled-Salvation-Army makes me itchy.
On the menu:
Eggs Rothko (easy-cooked egg in a slice of brioche, topped with cheddar, served with broiled tomatoes and kale)
Country Ham Biscuit (thick cut ham, fig jam, and cheddar on a country biscuit, served with grits)
French press coffee (NOTE: Egg serves each table its own French press; how swank is that?)
Verdict: Hipsters, be damned, I am going back to EGG! Oh, the beauty of salty, thick-sliced ham paired with sweet fig jam and salty melted cheddar. I feel I have to discuss the filling and THEN the biscuit because they are magic alone and perfection together. Some might tell you I peeled away the top of the biscuit to save for later and eat slowly at the end of the meal with fresh raspberry preserves… but those people would be liars.
The wait at Egg will run you at least a half hour if you go during typical brunch hours, but it is worth the wait, my friends. Sasha did not tell a lie: the biscuits are to die for. Everything tasted like it was straight out of your Kentucky grandma’s kitchen: farm fresh, made on premises, and prepared with love. More than once my fellow diners and I cried out, “Man, that is SOAKED in butter!” But y’all know that’s just fine with me.