Sadly, deviled eggs do not have their roots in the witch trials of Salem, or in one of the dark, soul-ratting tales of H.P. Lovecraft.
But they do have a history, dating back to ancient Rome, when they were a special treat for the upper crust, who would begin their meals of boar stuffed with chicken with a hard-cooked egg sprinkled with herbs and spices. The more colorful descriptive of “deviled” didn’t come into common usage till the 1800s, when just about any spicy food was given demonic roots — such as deviled ham and fra diavolo sauce. (They must get a lot of heartburn down in Hades!) But despite being taken from Satan’s cookbook, deviled eggs evolved over the years into a standard at church picnics, and family get-togethers on Sunday afternoons.
Though in a more polite society, they would be cleansed of their hint of fire and brimstone with neatly manicured names like “stuffed eggs,” “salad eggs” and “dressed eggs” — none of which are nearly as colorful as “deviled eggs.” And none of which existed for me growing up in the Bronx. We ate hard-boiled eggs.
We ate soft-boiled eggs. We flavored them with salt. Life was simple.
We did not use mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar or pickle relish. I didn’t know what I was missing. For the rest of America, deviled eggs were as standard as apple pie and a tuna fish or chopped chicken salad at picnics.
For me, they were just rubbery eggs with coarse salt. I was totally out of step with the taste of the nation.
