I am making the creme caramel/flan with care and devotion. I am in it for the artistry. So much so that I got the good creme fraiche, the kind that comes in a jar and should be priced in Euro’s. It was a decision between dry cleaning my buttery yellow silk blouse or getting the creme fraiche, and because I’m committed, I chose the creme fraiche.
I watch as the sugar melts into a boiling syrup, tilting the pan, observing the increasing shades of gold. I know instinctively when to pull it off the stove, when it’s at the threshhold of lush sweetness and burnt bitterness. Alchemy, I’m alchemizing.
“What’s alchemy?” Hi asks looking up from his device, maybe he is actually listening?
“It’s the art of turning something into gold.”
“Can you really do that?"
“Well, I’m not sure if you can scientifically do it, like turn a wooden spoon into actual gold” I demonstrate by waving the wooden spoon,” but alchemy is kind of like magic. It’s like taking something ordinary and not so valuable and making it into something precious and beautiful.”
“Is cooking alchemy?” His eyes were back on the screen.
“For sure.”
I am impressed by the connection he made, and can’t help but feeling a bit smug, I had something to do with this. He’s adorable this kid, and he’s half mine, chromosomally speaking, custody, of course is a different story.
“Too bad you won’t be here for the flan fete,” I say as I combine the eggs into the beaten creme fraiche. "But your dad is probably relieved. I got a complaint about the last Breakfast club I “subjected” you to.”
His mouth tightens instantly, he definitely does not want me to proceed down this road.
“But I’ll save you some.”
“Goody, I love your alchemy.”
See what I mean?
Later that night, after Hi went back to New Jersey and I was feeling pretty blue, Monica came over to round out my evening. She lay at her regularly scheduled spot my couch, tumbler in hand.
The flan is resting on the counter and I survey it from every angle and something is definitely not right, and I know what it is from the unsightly pockmarks on the surface. The telltale sign of separation.
“Unfortunately, this cannot be served” I declare.
“Why not?” Monica sits up on the couch.
“Because look at it, it’s mottled, it’s an abomination, a total disgrace.”
“Calm down”
She knows I absolutely hate it when people say that.
I lifted the pyrex dish and peered at the caramel layer on the bottom.
Clunk it sounds as I drop it on the wood board counter. It holds itself in place, but the unsightliness of the its complexion is completely offensive.
“It’s because I let the bad Brett thoughts in while I was preparing it. I was not pure. I was not disciplined.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“How else would you explain it?”
“Let me try it.” She got up and joins me in front of the flan, she goes in delicately with a teaspoon
“Tastes good… Really good, mmm” she licks the spoon.
“That might be true, but appearance is as important as taste, and this is one ugly overworked mutha fucka.”
“So, whatcha gunna do?”
“Duh, I’m going to throw it out and begin anew, of course.” Should I be surprised that Monica doesn’t get it?
“Really? Just make your life easier and get something from one of the Spanish bakeries on Broadway,”
I gasped, “I know you can’t possibly be serious. When have I ever made my life easier?”
“Seriously Bish no one cares.” She emphasized with a flick of her hand.
“Do you understand that I combine creme fraiche with condensed milk? They don’t do that at the Spanish bakeries on Broadway.
I” know, I know, you’re a genius. But Bish, honey, I think you’re having a micro manic meshugenneh moment. Just take a second…. Wait, where are you going?!”
“What time does Pickfair close?” I was rifling through my handbag to ensure everything was there. “Eleven, right?”
“You’re 23 kinds of nuts. You’re going there now?!”
“I have to, that’s where the best creme fraiche lives, in a jar, on the top shelf of the dairy case.”
“ Here, bubelleh, just take this, you’ll feel better.” She brandishes her bejeweled pill box and talks to me like I’m either a small child or a mental patient.
“I’ll be back soon, will you be here?”
“Probably not, My pill’s gonna be kicking in very soon.” She settles back on my couch.
“Since when does that mean anything?” I say as I close the door behind me.
Now I’m on the street, with other nocturnal rovers. New Yorkers coming home from work, walking their dogs, smoking a cigarette. I decide its ok for me to enjoy a full pulls on a joint. Why not? I have a long night ahead of me. Once on the subway I can’t help but fall in love with New York again. Where else I can I go to an art show, meet the artist, be inspired and turn my inspiration into something delicious at 10:30 on a Wednesday evening and be able to get phenomenal creme fraiche just 3 stops away,
Before too long I’m at Pickfair and am facing another opportunity cost. Should I splurge for the Madagascar Vanilla Beans $24 for a glass beaker containing 2 dark slender vanilla bean pods. I know I want to get Hi a new bento lunch box, the lid on his is warped and faulty. I take another look at the vanilla beans beautifully framed in the glass tube, they look like rare specimens in a natural history museum, I resist regardless.
