There's just something about deviled eggs, whether it's the

“There's just something about deviled eggs, whether it's the summer around Fourth of July for a picnic or a big sit-down meal like Christmas or Easter, we always do that.” Thus spoke Steve Doocy, not as a philosopher of politics or war, but as a poet of the everyday — a celebrant of the quiet rituals that bind families together through the changing seasons. His words, though simple in form, conceal a deep and timeless truth: that tradition, when rooted in love and shared memory, becomes a vessel of belonging. In his mention of deviled eggs, that humble and familiar dish, he captures something greater than the meal itself — the enduring power of ritual to unite generations and mark the rhythm of our lives.

Doocy’s quote is not merely about food; it is about continuity. He speaks of the same dish appearing again and again — at the Fourth of July, at Christmas, at Easter — as if it were a thread stitching together the fabric of his family’s story. In a world that changes swiftly and often carelessly, these small acts of repetition become sacred. To make deviled eggs each holiday is to declare, even silently, that some things must remain — that amidst all the shifting tides of time, there is still a table, still laughter, still home.

The ancients, too, understood the sanctity of shared meals. The Greeks gathered at their symposia, where food and wine were not only nourishment but communion. The Romans spoke of “convivium” — living together — as the act of feasting. And in every corner of the world, from the harvest festivals of Asia to the bread-breaking of Europe, the table has been the altar of human unity. What Doocy describes is the modern continuation of this timeless human need: to celebrate life and faith, not through grand monuments, but through shared food and fellowship.

Consider, for a moment, the symbolism of the egg itself — the vessel of new life, the emblem of rebirth, the token of Easter and springtime. In making deviled eggs, families unconsciously celebrate renewal: the transformation of something simple into something cherished, the ordinary turned extraordinary through care. Just as the egg is boiled, peeled, seasoned, and filled anew, so too are we reshaped by tradition — tested by time, softened by love, and filled again with meaning. When Doocy says, “we always do that,” it is a quiet hymn to this cycle — a recognition that each act of repetition deepens our roots and strengthens our bonds.

And yet, there is something even more profound in his words: the universality of these small customs. Every family, every culture, has its version of the deviled egg — that one dish or ritual that returns again and again, not because it is grand, but because it is familiar. It reminds us who we are. It tells the children, “This is our way.” It tells the elders, “You are remembered.” Such traditions are the glue that holds societies together, more powerful than laws or speeches. They teach us that identity is not forged in slogans, but in the quiet, repeated gestures of love.

In this sense, Doocy’s quote is a lesson in gratitude — an invitation to see the sacred in the simple. For how often do we rush past the small joys, dismissing them as trivial, when in truth they are the foundation of all that endures? The deviled egg, like the family meal, is a symbol of constancy in a transient age. It teaches us to honor not only the great events of our lives but also the small rituals that give them texture — the clinking of forks, the laughter across a table, the familiar recipe made by familiar hands.

Therefore, my listener, take this wisdom to heart: cherish your traditions, no matter how modest. Do not let them wither beneath the weight of busyness or cynicism. In keeping them, you are keeping more than memory — you are keeping meaning. Make the meal. Share the story. Pass down the recipe. For these simple acts are the quiet architecture of civilization itself.

And so, when Steve Doocy speaks of his family’s deviled eggs, he is not merely talking about food; he is speaking the language of the ancients, the eternal poetry of belonging. There is, indeed, “something about them” — something sacred in their repetition, something divine in their simplicity. For in every dish shared with love, there lives a promise: that no matter how the world changes, the circle of the table will remain unbroken.