It is HOT, y'all.


Portland reached the high-90s this weekend, which means of course that everyone either floated the Sandy, drank PBRs from a cooler, and/or died. I drank some PBRs, avoided death, and ended up spending last night at my former roommate and good friend's house, which thankfully has central air. Have you experienced central air? It is a religious experience – if you were selling God alongside a central air system on a 100 degree day, I would be evangelical.


We cooked a delicious dinner in the first-world bliss of a cold house on a hot day. I'm reminded of a quote from King of the Hill, when the family went to Phoenix and Peggy said, “This city should not exist – it is a monument to man's arrogance.” Preach, Peggy. I can only survive these temperatures with ceiling fans and a bottle of Monopolowa vodka in my freezer, and friends with AC units. TRY ME, HOT WEATHER. I HAVE CIRCULATING AIR AND COLD BOOZE AND AWESOME FRIENDS.


This morning, my mother-in-law came over with an edamame plant (!!!!!!!!!) and fresh eggs from her hens, and promptly started weeding and feeding our chickens and just generally being a hummingbird of productivity, while I tried to trudge through my hangover (my friend pours stiff drinks, and the heat makes me verklempt). As she moved on to other ventures, her energy inspired me enough to weed all of our plots, water all of our plants, and feed our chickens some more weeds, all the while impressively not dying of heat stroke.


As I walked back into the kitchen after sweating my balls off in the heat and feeling like I would immediately perish until I stuck my head into the freezer, I saw my cookbook, The Food Lab, sitting precariously on my counter. My mission is to cook my way through it, and yesterday, I failed. I needed to cook something today. How convenient that I have a dozen fresh eggs from the most pampered hens in the Portland metro area? I decided to tackle creamy scrambled eggs – with goat cheese and roasted tomatoes, and a chicken sausage too because why not go beast-mode, protein-style.


6 eggs, 2 egg yolks, ¾ tablespoon of salt and I whisked it until it was frothy. After letting it sit for about 30 minutes, it turned from golden to ORANGE. Like Donald Trump before and after a tanning session. I added in 2 tablespoons of butter that I had chopped into little chunks and kept chilled, then threw it in a pan over medium-low heat and stirred it constantly. Eventually, the eggs started to curdle as the butter melted and then they eventually came together into a beautiful, custardy lump. How is that for making food sound edible?

I turned off the heat and added a couple tablespoons of heavy cream. After adorning the plate with tomatoes that I roasted then broiled, a bit of thyme, and some goat cheese – breakfast was served.


Oh Jesus. That lump of eggs was so good I wanted to break the plate over my head in a show of victory. The eggs were the perfect texture, the roasted acidity and sweetness of the tomatoes and the sharp, tangy goat cheese (which melted into the hot eggs) came together just perfectly. My husband literally licked his plate, and I served him the ugly plate that I didn't take pictures of.


I definitely heated up our barely-tolerable house by having the stove on for a half hour, and I would say it was worth it – but it wasn't. Our house is literally uninhabitable after two days of this heat and my stupid cooking venture. So, I am writing this from the Hidden East Tavern which has ample AC and cheap beer. I walked in and was tempted to take off my bra and lay down on the floor while the bartendress threw ice cubes at me. I settled for a PBR – and an ice water, which I will probably drink eventually but am mostly rubbing on my face like a feral human.


Stay safe out there, folks. And try those eggs, because holy shit they were good enough that I turned my house into the purgatory between earth and Hell and am now writing at a trashy bar on a Sunday afternoon just so I can exist without melting.