Huevos Tibios

Gigi brought the water to a boil over a roaring flame, and then she gently lowered the eggs into the pot with a ladle. I watched her work from the safety of my highchair, just under the arched breakfast nook in our cozy home on Boulevard Atlixco in Puebla, Mexico.

Gigi knew just how long to cook the eggs by whispering one Lord’s Prayer, and sometimes two if her mood called for a more buttery finish. Then she lifted the eggs from the water, one by one, and cracked the tops off the eggshells. She served them with a pinch of salt and two drops of lemon.

She had the science down when it came to preparing huevos tibios. After all, she had plenty of practice with my five siblings before me. But I was only a two-year-old, and the texture puzzled me. I could not decide if I wanted to eat my breakfast.

I was trapped, strapped into my highchair, staring at the soft-boiled egg. The squishy meal was not what I had in mind. But my annoying belly would not stop growling at me. I found myself in a standoff with my mother.

I raised one eyebrow, giving the soft-boiled egg a smirk, and pushed it as far away from me as I could. But with every push, Gigi would put another spoonful in my mouth. There was no way out of my highchair, and to my surprise, the nibbles became tolerable. The hints of the salt made the egg yolk bearable, and then, my breakfast disappeared.