Erica De Mane

Italian Vegetable Garden, by Simona Cristofari.

Recipe below: Peppers and Eggs

Arriving home on Long Island at 4 a.m. or so from another night of Manhattan club-hopping, exhausted and starving as only a teenager can be, I’d sometimes wander out to my father’s little backyard garden to grab a tomato or a pepper, or parsley, or anything that would help me turn out a fast dish of eggs or a sandwich. Occasionally I’d run into my father back there, in the semi-dark, wearing a bathrobe or pajama bottoms, the orange coal of his Winston glowing. He’d be weeding, picking dead leaves, evaluating the growth of his eggplants, the zucchini, pinching back his now huge basil plants. At first I was startled to see him there at such an odd hour, but soon it became unsurprising. It was just what he did. We’d chat briefly about my evening, about the group of rotating gay boys I went out with, which always made him shake his head and laugh.

My hunger made me not want to linger in the damp garden. I’d be thinking that the peppers looked very much ready for picking. “I’m going in to make peppers and eggs,” I’d say. “Do you want some?” The light would be just starting to come up, bringing his bushy herb plot into focus. The Italian parsley was so big its leaves drooped to the ground. He’d look over at his tangle of plants, some held up by broken pool cues, and grab two half-red Italian frying peppers, a handful of basil, and a few sprigs of oregano. “I’ll make the eggs,” he’d say. He liked cooking eggs.

At the kitchen table I’d pour us diet root beer and run a wet paper towel over my face in an effort to remove what remained of the evening’s ridiculous makeup job. I was still wearing the turquoise-colored, Pucci-inspired muumuu I had found in the depths of my mother’s closet. It now smelled of dried sweat and amyl nitrite.

He cooked the eggs quickly, adding garlic and salt. I found a hunk of semi-stale Arthur Avenue bread and put it on the table. I was so hungry I could hardly stand it. The mingling aromas of torn basil and peppers smelled so good. My father tilted the pan, scraping and folding until the eggs were firm. It wasn’t an omelet, and it wasn’t scrambled eggs. It was something in between. We just called it peppers and eggs. An Italian-American classic. It was one of the best meals of my young life.

Here’s how I like to make it:

Peppers and Eggs

For two servings, you’ll need an Italian frying pepper, preferably one that has passed through its pure green phase and is starting to show some red. Seed and slice it. Chop up a scallion, including most of the tender green part. Clean a handful of basil leaves, and then give them a rough chop. Pull the leaves off a large oregano sprig, leaving them whole. Whisk six eggs in a small bowl.

Get a sauté pan hot over medium heat. Add a tablespoon or so of good olive oil, swirling it around to coat the pan. Now add the pepper slices, and sauté them until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the scallion, and let it soften for a minute longer.

Add the eggs, letting them sit for about 30 seconds. Scatter on the herbs, and season with salt and black pepper. Now, using a flexible, heatproof spatula, start pulling the eggs in from the edges toward the center, letting the uncooked parts run into the pan bottom. You don’t want to do a scrambling motion; you want long strokes, so you get more of a lumpy omelet effect. Keep pulling back on the eggs until they’re just set but have not browned at all. You’re not going for runny French eggs here, but you also don’t want them dry.

Cut the eggs in half, and slide them onto two plates. This is best served with good Italian bread and either an espresso, a glass of white wine, or a diet root beer, depending.