Poached Eggs

The morning after my return to Sarasota from Chicago—where I’d spent the holiday season hosting and visiting with extended family—I opened the fridge with equal parts curiosity and trepidation. 

The light flicked on to reveal a half dozen eggs, some outdated yogurt pushed to the back, and Honeycrisp apples that looked fine but felt suspiciously squishy when I picked them up. The pantry wasn’t much better: packets of instant oatmeal and a few pieces of rock-hard dried fruit rattling around in a plastic container. 

Not great options.

Still, I needed to eat something before tackling the inevitable re-entry chores—laundry that smelled faintly of airplane and holiday food, mail piled on the counter, and the necessary grocery store run. When I pulled out the carton of eggs, I had no idea where that simple decision would lead.

Before we were empty nesters, my husband Steve came up with a quick egg dish he’d no doubt seen online or on some random morning news show. 

In that frenetic window of time when brown bags were stuffed with lunches and backpacks swallowed homework folders and gym uniforms, Steve announced, “I’ve got breakfast covered. Who wants eggs?” He shouted this toward the cranky, bleary-eyed teens drifting into the kitchen. I chuckled to myself as all they offered him was a blank nod.

As I bagged the lunches, I watched Steve out of the corner of my eye pull three mismatched mugs from the cabinet above the coffee maker. He poured two tablespoons of water into each, cracked two eggs per mug, and loosely covered them with a paper towel. 

One by one, he set the mugs into the microwave, carefully tucking the paper towel around the bottom edge, then punched in thirty seconds. When it beeped, he swished the eggs gently and sent them back in for another thirty seconds. 

At the sink, he held a tablespoon to the rim and carefully poured off excess liquid.

Armed with a plate of toasted English muffins, his face beamed as he set each mug of perfectly poached eggs on the table in front of our ravenous teens. 

Poached eggs were never just poached eggs after that. They became something else entirely in our house: Dad’s Eggs in a Cup.

So, on that recent, beautiful Sarasota morning—sunlight already pouring in, palm fronds outside the window barely moving, me both travel-weary and hungry—I defaulted to the easiest breakfast option in my repertoire: Dad’s Eggs in a Cup. 

What I didn’t realize was what preparing that dish would do to me.

It set off a complicated wave of emotion. All those breakfasts with our kids—rushed, noisy, happy moments that evaporated almost overnight when college and jobs beckoned, removing them from our daily world and purview. 

My husband’s pleased smile that seemed to say, I’m helping. I’ve got this. 

Both sentiments that tickled me then and still do now. 

But Eggs in a Cup also came to define our retirement years in Florida—before and during Covid—and during his long, determined battle with bladder and prostate cancer.

For me, making Eggs in a Cup on that solitary January morning, after enduring another holiday season—my third without him—turned out to be both triggering and uplifting. 

It brought him back to me in a quiet, ordinary way. Not as a memory sealed in the past, but as a presence woven into muscle memory and routine. 

It preserved him, and us, and our family moments. I couldn’t help but smile through sad tears.

As I think about how food and scent—and music, too—usher in sudden flashes of bygone days, I’m struck by how powerful these sensory anchors are. How they heal and console us. How they tether us to who we were even as we navigate who we’re becoming in the tricky present.

That morning, standing alone in my kitchen with a warm mug in my hands, I let myself linger there—grateful for the way memory can show up unannounced, steady and familiar, when you least expect it.

What foods, scents, or tunes do this for you? Leave a comment here.

Book Award News

Twice the Family, A Memoir of Love, Loss and Sisterhood received an International Impact Award, Winner in Parenting

Jack and Lulu Go to the Tree Farm is a 2026 Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite in the category of Picture Books- Ages 4-8 and was a 2025 Firebird Book Award Winner in Children Nature category

Follow Me Here

Jan. 1-31, I’m STILL actively participating in “JanYourStory”, a 31-day writing initiative put on by MemoirNation. #JanYourStory.

February 4th, my audiobook for Twice the Family, A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Sisterhood will release on Audible (ACX). It is already available for preorder on Spotify, Story Tel, Audiobooksnow, hoopla, CHIRP, and KOBO. 

Feb. 26 and March 18, from 1:30-2:30, I will teach a webinar for the Author Learning Center, titled “Essays That Echo: Crafting Personal Essays That Resonate.” Join me online for either date by registering here.

On March 3 from 5-7 PM, I will conduct a memoir writing workshop for the Westchester Public Library system at the Thomas Branch Library (200 W. Indiana Ave, Chesterton, IN). Join us for Memoir Magic. 

March 13-15, I’ve been invited again to attend the prestigious Tucson Festival of Books as a presenting author in the Adoptee Authors Booth alongside this impressive group of adoption writers:  EM Blake, Ken DeStefano, Ann Fessler, Dr. Abby Hasberry, Diana Kayla Hochberg, Ariel Rathbun, Emma Stevens (Linda Pevac), Jesse Scott, Diane Wheaton, and Jean Kelly Widner. 

March 20, Join me at the J McLaughlin store on Longboat Key for “Sip ‘N Shop” from 2-5. Julie will be signing books, and a portion of the store’s profits will be donated to the Longboat Key Library.

Follow Julie by visiting her website, subscribe to her bimonthly newsletters, and listen to previous podcast recordings where she discusses topics like adoption, identity, family relationships, sisterhood and belonging.

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