Growing up, my mother would religiously (pun somewhat intended) boil off a dozen eggs every year on Good Friday. We’d color them, put them in our Easter baskets, and come Monday morning, toss them all in the trash. Well, not quite all–I’d usually work up the courage to try one, gag, and vow to never subject myself to another and one of my brothers would inevitably hide a couple in my closet to be discovered later in the week.
Needless to say, we were not a hard-boiled egg family. I thought everyone one like us, I thought everyone realized just how disgusting hard-boiled eggs were. I didn’t realize plenty of people were raised loving egg salad sandwiches and most siblings would fight each over a deviled egg instead of seeing them as something only to be eaten on a dare.
A year or two ago, I made a conscious decision to give hard-boiled eggs an honest try. I cracked open my “America’s Test Kitchen” cookbook and taught myself the proper way to boil an egg. I started adding them to salads. At first, I found them challenging. Then I found them satisfying. I even started to crave them and, eventually, I came around to what used to be my worst nightmare: egg salad.