Every Portuguese dish worth knowing starts with a refogado. Onion, cooked slowly in good azeite until it melts. Peppers next, then tomatoes. This is the holy trinity of our cooking, the foundation that holds up everything from bacalhau to cozido. For this dish, we take that foundation and fold eggs into it.

Avó Leonor made this on mornings when time moved slower. She'd stand at the fogão with her wooden spoon, pushing the eggs gently through the vegetables, never rushing. The kitchen would fill with the smell of sweet peppers and ripe tomatoes. I'd sit at the table with a thick slice of bread, waiting.

This isn't the scrambled eggs you make when you're running late. This is Saturday morning. This is Sunday with nowhere to be. The refogado takes time because it should take time. The eggs cook gently because they deserve gentleness.

The bread is essential. You need something to catch all that fragrant oil, those bits of pepper and tomato that escape the fork. At my Mesa da Avó brunches, I watch people chase the last traces around their plate with a crust of pão. That's how you know the dish did its job.