It is tradition to try a new fancy food on Christmas eve or on Christmas day. In the past I have ordered Norman Love chocolates, mochi balls from Bubbies, made nachos with cheese sauce from Miguel's, cooked hollandaise sauce for eggs benedict. This year, I wanted to try a soufflé.
I've been afraid to try a soufflé, so to save it for Christmas seemed a little risky. Deliciously risky.
To take a risk is to put oneself in danger or peril. I realized long ago how I hated taking chances with consequences of magnitude. It meant refusing Tony’s gift of hang gliding after I parachuted from an airplane. It meant no more riding on the back of the tandem down a long mountain road crowded with fall-leaf sightseers. It meant refusing to land our kayak on a forbidden shore. Yet, at the bottom of my soul was a woman not quite ready to give up the adrenaline rush of a good, safe, justifiable risk. For many years it was arriving at the airport in the nick of time. I never missed a flight which reenforced the silly risk, but too many close calls later, I’m done with that tomfoolery.
Still not ready to give up risk completely, I have reduced myself to the risk of making a soufflé for the first time on Christmas Day. With guests present. Scandalous!
The four of us gathered around the guest of honor, plates out, forks ready. I delicately cut, expecting any harsh or fast move to cause the entire puff to fall as if explosives were waiting to implode it.
It cut like soft butter. Fluffy, intense cheese flavor filled our mouths, but alas, it wasn't perfect. The middle was runny.
The logical remedy would be to cut off the cooked top and edges, and place the middle back into the oven to bake...but perhaps this was a tender, unforgiving soufflé, or maybe soufflés aren't as delicate and persnickety as our French chefs would have us believe. Secrets of the trade.
Did we dare? We did.
Ten minutes later we were again treated to an American woman's version of a compromised soufflé. Crusty, fluffy, delicious.
Will I try it again? Of course. When I crave another risk.
I've been afraid to try a soufflé, so to save it for Christmas seemed a little risky. Deliciously risky.
To take a risk is to put oneself in danger or peril. I realized long ago how I hated taking chances with consequences of magnitude. It meant refusing Tony’s gift of hang gliding after I parachuted from an airplane. It meant no more riding on the back of the tandem down a long mountain road crowded with fall-leaf sightseers. It meant refusing to land our kayak on a forbidden shore. Yet, at the bottom of my soul was a woman not quite ready to give up the adrenaline rush of a good, safe, justifiable risk. For many years it was arriving at the airport in the nick of time. I never missed a flight which reenforced the silly risk, but too many close calls later, I’m done with that tomfoolery.
Still not ready to give up risk completely, I have reduced myself to the risk of making a soufflé for the first time on Christmas Day. With guests present. Scandalous!
I found the recipe and even watched a short video on the secrets of soufflé success.
I prepared the soufflé dish, separated the eggs and left them to acclimate to room temperature.
Grated the cheese beforehand
Gruyere cheese heaven
When the timer buzzed, we all snuck back into the kitchen, hungry, mouths watering from the floating, permeating smell of melting cheese, yet we were all afraid to open the oven. As master or un-masterful chef, I performed the honor. I carefully cracked open a slice of the oven door and peeked inside. It didn't look exactly like a traditional square-topped soufflé but it resembled a soufflé. Enough to claim a soufflé coup d'etat!
I ran upstairs to double check the recipe and find out how long we needed to wait.
The instructions read: Using oven mitts, transfer soufflé to platter and serve immediately.
It cut like soft butter. Fluffy, intense cheese flavor filled our mouths, but alas, it wasn't perfect. The middle was runny.
The logical remedy would be to cut off the cooked top and edges, and place the middle back into the oven to bake...but perhaps this was a tender, unforgiving soufflé, or maybe soufflés aren't as delicate and persnickety as our French chefs would have us believe. Secrets of the trade.
Did we dare? We did.
Ten minutes later we were again treated to an American woman's version of a compromised soufflé. Crusty, fluffy, delicious.
Will I try it again? Of course. When I crave another risk.
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