Colorful Brunch Frittata

I read Paul's books in the evening. The shipwreck books, of course. The same chapters I have read forty times now. The repetition is the comfort. I am not reading for new information. I am reading because the act of opening Paul's books and turning Paul's pages is a form of sitting in the room with him. He is not in the room. The book was in his hand. The book is in my hand. The hands are connected through the book. Peter called from Chicago. He sounded thinner than last week. He said work was fine. I do not believe him. He said his apartment was fine. I do not believe him either. He asked about the dog. He asked about the lake. He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. I told him about the bread I was baking. He said he could almost smell it through the phone. We hung up. I stood at the sink for a long minute. I did not know what else to do. Sophie texted a photo of Mira eating cereal. Mira's face was covered in milk. The photo was lit from the side by morning light and the smile in it was uninhibited and full and I could not stop looking at it. I printed the photo. I taped it to the fridge. I have a system on the fridge now: a column for each grandchild, a column for each great-grandchild, photos rotated weekly. The fridge is the gallery. The gallery is the proof. I cooked Pyttipanna (Swedish hash) this week. Leftover potatoes diced small. Leftover beef from Sunday's roast diced small. Onion fine-chopped. All sautéed in butter until edges crisp. Topped with a sunny-side egg and a dollop of pickled beets. The most Swedish breakfast there is. The most efficient use of leftovers there is. The Damiano Center: a regular named Marlene, who has been coming for twelve years, told me her granddaughter just had a baby. She was glowing. She had a photo on her phone. The phone was old and cracked but the photo was clear: a small pink baby in a hospital blanket. Marlene said: "I am a great-grandmother now. The same as you." I said: "Welcome to the club." We hugged. The line continues, even on the hard side of the soup line. Mamma's bread pans are on the shelf where they have always been. I used the smaller one this week. The metal has worn smooth in the places her hands touched it for sixty years. The pan is, in some real sense, a sculpture of Mamma's hands. I knead the bread in the bowl Mamma used. I shape it on the counter Mamma stood at (well, mine, but identical to hers — same Formica color, same dimensions). I bake it in the pan Mamma baked in. The kitchen is the relay. The relay continues. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. It is enough.

The Pyttipanna came together the way it always does — leftovers made purposeful, the pan doing its patient work — and when the egg went on top, sunny-side up and trembling at the edges, I thought: this is the whole idea, isn’t it? Everything gathered, everything held. A frittata is just that logic carried further: more eggs, more color, the whole week’s abundance folded into one dish that you slide from the oven and set on the table like a small proof of something. If you have been feeding people through grief, through distance, through soup lines and bread pans and cracked phone screens, this is the recipe that says you are still here, still cooking, still at the center of the relay.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

8 large eggs
1/4 cup whole milk
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small yellow onion, diced fine
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 cup baby spinach, roughly chopped
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1/2 cup crumbled feta or shredded gruyère
2 tablespoons fresh chives or flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Set your oven to 375°F (190°C) and position a rack in the center.
Whisk the eggs. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, salt, and pepper until fully combined and slightly frothy. Set aside.
Sauté the vegetables. Melt the butter in a 10-inch oven-safe skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and bell pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 to 6 minutes. Add the spinach and stir until just wilted, about 1 minute.
Add the tomatoes. Scatter the cherry tomatoes evenly across the pan. Distribute the vegetables so they sit in a single layer.
Pour in the eggs. Pour the egg mixture evenly over the vegetables. Sprinkle the cheese over the top. Do not stir. Let the edges begin to set over medium heat, about 2 minutes.
Bake. Transfer the skillet to the oven and bake until the frittata is puffed, set in the center, and lightly golden at the edges, 12 to 15 minutes. A toothpick inserted in the center should come out clean.
Rest and serve. Remove from the oven and let rest 3 minutes before slicing into wedges. Scatter fresh chives or parsley over the top and serve directly from the pan.

Nutrition (per serving)

Colorful Brunch Frittata — The Egg That Holds Everything Together