I’ve had my first request for a blog post. This is exciting. It happened last night in the pub. The request I mean. ‘It’ could be construed as something far more exciting which is generally not happening in my life. Thus a request for a blog post leaps up the rankings of generally exciting events with all the alacrity and enthusiasm displayed by a flea when it catches sight of a piece of naked flesh. Which is probably similar to my alacrity and enthusiasm at the same sight.
So, a blog post. The request.
Crème brulee.
Now, my requestee claims to be a reader of my blog. But somehow I wonder. What, I’m asking myself does crème brulee have to do with thinly disguised analogies for sex? Or thickly disguised analogies for sex? Or sex?
However I realise after a smidge of further wondering where crème brulee fits into the scheme of things – it’s like custard. Ah ha!!!
I begin to prepare some cunning experiments to test the properties of c.b. Things like swimming pools full of the stuff to test the old sink or swim non-newtonian liquid thingy. Large bowls on vibrating plates to enact the spooky wobbly wibbly thingys. Huge vats with ginormous weights balanced on top to apply however many g’s it takes to rule the world.
I am slightly flummoxed by the lack of this particular culinary delight with which to experiment. I am, I discover, much to my chagrin and mild surprise, crème brulee –less. The cupboards are empty of the stuff. The fridge contains no crème, no brulee. The wardrobes, similarly are rich-desert-less. As is even the shed. Although the camels may have eaten it.
I am left with no choice but to create my own large quantities of crème brulee on which to experiment. I am in no way defeated by the fact that I have very few of the ingredients and specialised tools required for the creation of crème. I can substitute along with the best of them.
Here is the recipe I found on a well know encyclopaedia site:
3 pints heavy cream
¾ cup granulated sugar
¾ tsp salt
1.5 tsp vanilla extract
12 egg yolks
Here is the recipe I used:
3,000 pints of heavy water
340 cups of granulated dust (found under kitchen cabinets)
No salt (as it’s bad for you and I ate it all on my dinner earlier)
150 tps extract of tumble dryer
I thought the eggs were probably not important
This is what I discovered using scientific methods (stirring):
Crème brulee is not a non-newtonian liquid.
I can swim.
Crème brulee when vibrated does not get excited.
I do.
Crème brulee when put under pressure doesn’t flinch in the slightest.
I do.
Cardiff City Council do not offer a free crème brulee disposal service.
Camels do not eat crème brulee.
A special thanks to my requestee for involving me in this evening’s entertainment. If anyone else has any blog requests I ask only this – please supply the correct ingredients. Otherwise fuck off.
Does anyone know what camels eat?
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2 comments:
No Cream in the Mountains.
When the phone rang I was playing with myself as usual. King's pawn to e4 has never been my best opening, but then it was still early. The voice on the other side of the machine was as brown as chocolate and softer than soft stuff. "I hear you do it for money," she said.
I've heard the line enough not to feel cheap, but I still tried hard to be off-hand. "Depends what you want. Twenty five plus expenses for the basics. If you want anything special we'll need to talk first."
There are all kinds of silences - long, short, loud, quiet - but the silence that followed was as a new one on me. It echoed down the line like a Magimix on high-rev and, finally, settled like a dusting of sugar.
"Creme brulee," she said.
Damn. It had been a long time. Since the last one, I mean, and I'd promised myself that there wouldn't be another. Just heating cream brought her to mind, and burning sugar was as happy an occasion as a sock-full of nickels on the back of the neck.
But I needed the dough. My bank account had crept under a duck and there was no call for orange sauce at all since the freezer trade had begun to take off.
So I said yes.
The Studebaker struggled a little on the winding road up to the back of the canyon, but that was ok. If this job paid up I'd get that piston re-bored and maybe buy a second vehicle for the barbeque business. Lugging all that charcoal around hurt the suspension like a twisted seam hurt the eye.
I killed the engine at the sidewalk outside the gate and made the long walk to the door. The house wasn't so big. Mountains are larger and I've seen museums that are more baroque. The raked gravel crunched under my shoes like stuff that crunches, and it reminded me of the sound of toffee breaking. Would I be able to go through with this?
Afterwards she paid up without a cough. Normally, I'd ask for the money up front, but hell, I didn't even know whether I'd get as far as the vanilla pods.
Was it worth it? Don't ask me, I gave up comparing a long time ago. One Creme Brulee is much like another now and, like it or not, none matches the first.
excellent Mel. Thank you :-)
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