She is the bane of my existence.
Five long years have seen us attempt to master this wretched dessert. By us, I mean my darling husband and I, and I offer limply an excuse for the five years; you see, we’ve tried only infrequently – in between dieting and bouts of derision for the latest research indicating that eggs are bad and that cream will surely kill you.
And in our favour, I must tell you that we have actually pulled it off. The perfect crème brûlée – just once, mind you, as a practice-run for a dinner party to impress The Jones’s. Of course, on the important night however, she split, transfiguring her sob-worthy-self into a curdled, scrambled-eggs-rice-pudding. Hiss! at the infernal thing! We served ice-cream.
We tried again last week.
Chocolate this time.
We had the candy thermometer, the best oven, the warm water bath, the patience, the most beautiful ingredients, the brûlée blow torch (oh, to actually get her to that stage!) And what did we arrive at?
The most delectable hot chocolate ever.
Now, I am certain, should I have ladled this concoction into fanciful mugs as drinking chocolate, and served it with biscotti at my candle-lit, winter dinner party, my legend would have lived on forever. Beautiful creatures would later tell their children of the night they drank the most bewitched of hot chocolate. Their babes would grow old, searching in vain for such a delight. However, the hideous thing was supposed to be chocolate crème brûlée! And, all but screeching, I stuck it in the fridge and served ice-cream.
Now, I know that everyone reading this shall be exclaiming: Mon dieu, Leah! Of course you cannot master crème brûlée! Merde, no one can. Don’t you know that all the very best the restaurants cheat and add cornflour, custard powder and/or gelatine?
Of course, any of you who are actually saying: Huh? It’s really not that hard, Leah, I have a recipe that works every time. Well to you, I say: Lalalalalala. Not listening. Big liar.
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