Uova alla Pizzaiola Two Ways

On sale at the Taos flea market, in case you need one.

A saint* came to visit, and brought us comfort and peace.  This manifested in many ways, but the particular miracle I recount here came in the form of a recipe drawn from thin air.  I had just worked 12 hours.  I was home: tired, ill tempered, ugly, and dangerous.  The cupboards were bare, a working woman’s grim Thursday night tribulation, and aside from a big blah can of generic diced tomatoes, the not-quite-end-of-the-week blues were the only items to occupy the shelves.  A lone hapless onion tried to hide under the counter. 

Enter the saint.  “Look” he said, sweetly with affection, “an onion!”  The onion perked right up, rolled back a little from the counter's edge… “Do you happen to have a can of tomatoes?” asked the saint. The can of tomatoes attempted to smile bravely up at him.  “How about some eggs?” My God, there they were, lined up two-by-two, in formation, the Eggs!  “And just a little Parmesan?”  The Parmesan, a gnarly little nub I had carelessly forgotten to wrap up a week before, remembered its roots and rose proudly to the occasion.  (O! To be Of Parma!).

“Here you go”, said the Saint to me, “you sit down, have a glass of wine, and I’ll just cook dinner.”  I growled, but took the wine, which he wisely held at arm's length. He stepped back quickly.  Saint, but no fool.

This is what happened next: He served 4.

He chopped the onion up very fine, and cooked it in a large pan in butter until it was soft and lovely.

He added the large awkward can of diced tomatoes, and told them they were beautiful.  “Unlike the fresh tomatoes”, he whispered to them, “you were picked vine-ripened and shipped in a can, where all the glory of your sun-kissed days can resurface with the turn of a can opener.” 

When the onions and tomatoes had started a fine and merry simmer, he gently added eggs on top, two for each of us, covered the pan and poached them.

When the eggs were firm and ready, he said, "Be brave..." and grated the Parmesan on top of each of them, to melt into gleaming little egg-domes.  


Then he served this up in a bowl, and pulled a loaf of crusty fresh bread out of a hat to go with it.

I had another glass of wine.

Recounting this miracle to my Italian friend Elena Giorgi, I learned she didn’t recognize the recipe. So I wondered, was The Saint just realizing a Mystic Vision, there in my kitchen?  Perhaps it had no historical precedent…  But then Elena did further research, as is her way, and wrote the following:

“My husband did recognize the recipe you told me about: it's called "uova alla pizzaiola (pizza eggs)". My mom didn't use the onions, so that's why I didn't recognize it. Typically, you would use olive oil instead of butter, and mozzarella goes on top instead of Parmesan. Unfortunately here in the US mozzarella doesn't have much of a flavor, so I agree that Parmesan was a better choice!”


* For those of you fortunate to have had him pass through your kitchen, you'll of course recognize the saint to be St. Mark Muldoon, patron saint of weary scientists.

Music for Thursday miracles:

‪Miles Davis - Kind of Blue - 1959 - All Blue