Erica De Mane

Recipe below: Peppers and Eggs

Summer, 1973: Arriving back home in Roslyn Harbor at 4 a.m. or so, sweaty and starving after another night of Manhattan club-hopping, I’d wander out to my father’s little backyard garden and grab a tomato or a pepper, anything that would help me turn out a fast dish of eggs or a sandwich. I’d occasionally run into him back there in the semi-dark, wearing a bathrobe or pajama bottoms, the orange coal of his Kent cigarette glowing. He’d be weeding, picking, evaluating his eggplants and zucchini, pinching back his basil. At first I was startled to see him there, but soon I got used to it. It was what he did in the summer; I just never knew about it until I began my late-night discoing. We’d chat briefly about my evening, about the rotating group of gay boys I’d gone out with, and he’d shake his head and snicker.

I was so hungry from seven hours of nonstop twirling that those peppers would look really good. “I think I’ll make peppers and eggs. Do you want some?” Now the light would be just starting to come up, bringing the giant basil plants into focus. That was a lot of basil. I guess a lot of pesto. He’d stare down the peppers, some held up by being strung to broken pool cues, and grab two half-red Italian frying ones, a handful of basil, and a few sprigs of oregano. “I’ll make the eggs.” He liked cooking eggs.

At the kitchen table I poured us diet root beer and ran a wet paper towel over my face to try to remove what was left of my Liza with a Z makeup job. I was still wearing the turquoise Pucci-inspired muumuu I had found in the depths of my mother’s closet. It now smelled of  amyl nitrate.

I found a hunk of semi-stale Arthur Avenue bread and put in on the table. I was so hungry I could hardly stand the mingling aromas of torn basil and peppers. My father tilted the pan, scraping and folding, until the eggs were firm. It wasn’t an omelet, it wasn’t scrambled eggs exactly, but something in between. We just called it peppers and eggs. One of the best dishes of my Italian-American girlhood.

My father.

Here’s how I make peppers and eggs:

Peppers and Eggs

For two servings, you’ll need one or two Italian frying peppers, preferably ones that have passed through their pure green phase and are starting to show some red. Seed and slice them. Chop up a scallion, including most of the tender green part (also add a sliced garlic clove if you like). Clean a handful of basil leaves, and then give them a rough chop. Pull the leaves off of 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. Then add the peppers, and sauté them until softened, about 6 minutes. Next add the scallion, and let that 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 spatula, started pulling the eggs back from the edges, letting the uncooked part 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, but you also don’t want them dry.

Cut the mass of egg in half with your spatula and slide it onto two plates. It is best served with good Italian bread and either an espresso, a glass of white wine, or a diet root beer, depending on your need.