Boiled custard
THE BLACKBERRIES THAT GROW WILD OUT BACK are coming in nicely this week, so nicely that yesterday evening I just couldn't wait any longer to bake the obligatory cobbler. Here at Chez Michaleen, a generous portion of berry cobbler, still hot from the oven, naturally cries out for a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, but rather than make another trip to the store I decided to make boiled custard - crème anglaise - instead.
Funny, but for all the cooking I do, and have done since I was little more than a child, I had never made custard. It seems rather simple really, at least on paper: egg yolks, sugar, salt, milk, and vanilla. What could possibly go wrong? Lots, as is often the case with such a simple dish, and last night just about everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.
On my fist attempt, I had the heat too high and the water in my double boiler - my grandfather's, the one he used to make his morning oatmeal - was boiling too vigorously. The temperature soared right past the thickening point to the curdle-the-fucking-egg-yolks point in about as much time as it took me to notice. So, I marked it down to experience, poured out the glop, cleaned up everything and started again.
The second attempt was almost text-book perfect. I stirred and stirred, keeping the liquid moving and maintaining a close eye on the water simmering below. The custard thickened until it nicely coated the back of my wooden spoon, just as the recipe said it would. I was thrilled. I stood there continuing to stir, admiring my handiwork, and then watched in horror as this batch curdled as well, only this time in slow motion.
Seems that one is supposed to remove the custard from the fire when it's done and somehow this rather obvious notion had failed to penetrate my self-congratulatory state of mind. I could have thrown myself on my ten-inch Solingen chef's knife, I was just that angry and, what's worse, I had no one and nothing to blame it on but myself.
Threw it out. Started again and the third time was indeed the charm.
A part of me acknowledges that I really shouldn't have been enjoying a big bowl of blackberry cobbler smothered in custard as a late-night snack, but at least I had an excuse. I did not originally intend to spend an hour-and-a-half over a hot stove making a scant two cups of custard.