Colucci Eggs

It has become the tradition around my house after the gifts have been opened, paper wrap detritus is in the large black plastic bag, for me to cook what my father called for some inexplicable reason “Colucci “ eggs.

For those of poor you who have not had the experience, a cross between a fritatta and an omelet and some other unnamed breakfast dish, which contains Potatoes, Green Peppers, Onions, Mushrooms and some Garlic, an occasional chopping of sausage or ham (once I think even a meatball), fried in a large pan until it becomes a mass by some transmogrification of and in itself. Something new born in the universe.

Then well beaten eggs poured over top so that they sizzle as they hit the wonderfully hot skillet floor.
        
A spatula turn and a scramble and a jostle or two and then cheese over the top, any variety in the fridge lunch meat drawer. Put a high arching top cover over the pans, shut off the heat and let it all just meld together.

Serve it in the skillets that bore it. So hot that the pan warms the whole house as it is carried to the table . Coffee orange juice and plenty of hard crust Italian bread. And oh yes,

the thing that I forgot to mention,

my father always added a secret ingredient which he would not divulge.

Ever.

He was a hard guy with a very sentimental soft core. Me, I keep up the tradition because I am a sentimental soft guy with a mushy core. We are both very much like our versions of “Colucci” eggs

Suspicion about the secret ingredient abounds. Some say the old man admitted in later life that it was “love” that was the secret ingredient. Some have guessed that it was a condiment preferably found on the lush floor of some magical forest. Some have even claimed that it was all a fake. Secret Ingredient? There is no secret ingredient in Colucci eggs! Oh, yes, we even suffer fools in our own family.

I am here to confirm that there was such an ingredient. I know because I now endeavor to embody the tradition.

One of the clues comes from the fact that our last name is Coluccio and we have proudly and sometimes rudely proclaimed that any one within the vicinity of the three rivers that define the city of Pittsburgh with final “O” on the name must be our relatives. (With the exception of one Cosmo Coluccio who disappeared from the phone book a number of years ago. Nobody knew who the hell he was. Possibly the UberColuccio!) Sure, you’ve got you’re Coluccis but we are the Coluccios. My father was one of the biggest guardians of the name. So how came these eggs to be called by him “Colucci” eggs?

It could be because every one called him, as they call me Hey, Colucci or Coluch! Language and the easy way out, no final aspiration. His friends and fellow workers all called him that.

I think the dish was not named at all.

That morning of the Colucci Eggs, he became a spirit that would awaken children out of a beautiful sleep even if he had to pull off the sheets and stand them up straight out of the bed, so that they would waddle to the kitchen tables and sit with little enthusiasm, eyes red and watery, begging for just fifteen minutes more. Until the skillet cover was lifted and the feast revealed.

He became a fulfillment, the promise of new days and fat times. He became dawn. And our proud name could not possibly contain the overwhelming brightness of that meal. Every mouthful spilled over into a welcoming cosmos. The O leaked away and carried that spirit.

And, believe me, that’s all the secret ingredient you ever need!

Buon Natale!