Puff daddy

One word strikes fear into the heart of cooks and chefs everywhere. And that word is… soufflé.  When made correctly, it’s sublime, but there is perhaps no other recipe so fraught with potential for disaster.

Souffle can be a finicky little bugger. If you don’t give it the love, attention and respect it deserves, it can pout and refuse to rise to the occasion, so to speak. It will show you who’s boss by emerging from the oven sad, flat and floppy instead of heavenly light and pillowy — a mere baked omelet instead of the puffy, fluffy masterpiece it was intended to be.

Hubby just got home last night from another work trip. When we got up this morning and saw the snow blanketing down (AGAIN. Ugh.), we decided to skip our planned yoga class and hole up inside for the day instead. Our thoughts turned to food, and hubby mentioned a “soufflé omelet” one of his colleagues enjoyed during a breakfast meeting the other day. Then he said, “Why don’t you ever make stuff like that?” I immediately bristled at this passive-aggressive comment and took offense. You want a soufflé, buddy? You got it.

I’ve made soufflés a couple of times before, but haven’t banged one out for a long time. And I have made them for hubby in the past, which he’s conveniently forgotten. No matter. I was up for the challenge.

The only soufflé recipe I’ve ever used is a Julia Child cheese version. Now, those of you who’ve ever prepared a Julia recipe know right away that her directions are going to make everything sound ten times more complicated than it needs to be, and you’re going to dirty every pot and pan in your kitchen before it’s all said and done. On the upside, your finished product is going to be delicious.

Souffles are one of those dishes that go a long way on just a few ingredients. Basically, all you need are eggs, milk, butter, a little flour and any ingredients you want to use as flavoring — cheese, sugar, melted chocolate, Grand Marnier, what have you. Since our soufflé was intended to serve as a late breakfast, we included shredded sharp cheddar cheese, slivered ham and a little diced red pepper. (Some sautéed onion would have made a nice addition, but you all know my audience…)

You start by greasing up an oven-safe casserole dish with butter and dusting it with grated parmesan cheese. This gives the eggs something to grab onto as they rise so impossibly high up the sides of the dish.

Next, you make a thick béchamel sauce on your stovetop by melting butter into flour to make a roux and adding milk, salt, pepper and a little nutmeg. Take it off the heat and stir in your egg yolks (just the yolks, mind you), shredded cheese and other flavoring ingredients.

Meanwhile, the egg whites come into play in a separate bowl (told you this was labor-intensive). Whip the heck out of them with an electric hand-mixer until they reach the stiff peak stage. As I’ve learned the hard way, you have to be painstakingly careful when separating your eggs. If there’s even the tiniest hint of egg yolk in the mix, they won’t whip up.

Once that’s done, fold the whipped whites into the béchamel, ever so gently so as to avoid deflating the whole concoction, and pour the whole mess into your casserole dish. Transfer it into the oven, set your timer for 30 minutes, cross your fingers and hope for the best. If all is well, you’ll see your soufflé slowly making its way up the dish as it bakes, but you’ll have to content yourself with watching it through the window. Don’t open the oven door, no matter how tempting it is. You’ll let in a rush of air that can disrupt the steady temperature and screw it all up.

When the timer goes off, if your culinary prayers have been answered, you should open the door to find a lovely, browned dome of feather-light eggs.

cheese souffle just out of the oven

Serve immediately to achieve maximum oohs and aahs; the soufflé immediately starts to sink back down the second it comes out of the heat. Tap into the crusty top and scoop out a big steaming serving. Don’t be shy. The consistency is so light and airy, you can eat a ton of this without stuffing yourself.

just look at that eggy lusciousness!

If you want to cut corners or you just don’t have the patience, stick to making an omelet or a frittata. But if you really want to impress your guests at brunch or turn out something truly romantic for a special-occasion breakfast, a soufflé is a great way to go.

Murder on the Italian Express

Busy few days!

For our last day in Milan, hubby went back to the trade show and the toddler and I headed back downtown on the tram. Through one of the tourist magazines I found in our hotel room, I discovered it’s possible to take an elevator up to the roof of the Duomo for some interesting bird’s-eye views of the city.

Il Duomo

 

The tickets to go up cost a very reasonable 8 euros, and the experience was pretty awesome. You take the elevator up to the back corner of the roof and wind your way among the spires and gargoyles, up and down stairs around to the front. Eventually, you emerge into a flat space in front of the very tallest spire where you can simply breathe and take it all in. I can’t even describe how magnificent it is to commune with all that gorgeous architecture up close and personal. Just put it on your agenda if you’re ever in Milan.

on top of the Duomo!

The last supper in Milan Tuesday night was our farewell visit to Il Pavone. My meal was a delightfully light and pillowy gnocchi with a rich gorgonzola cream sauce and a few toasted walnuts scattered around the plate for good measure.

Il Pavone gnocchi con gorgonzola

I think hubby had a pizza diavolo, but I was too focused on my own food to care much. The three of us split what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of a crème brulee for dessert and bid the beautiful Maria a fond arrividerci.

the lovely Maria

Because I hate to fly so much, we had determined to take an overnight sleeper train to Paris Bercy, departing Milan around 11:30 p.m. Packed up and ready to go, we grabbed a taxi to Milano Centrale train station and waited for our ride. I thought it might actually be, dare I say it, a fun adventure. Silly, silly me.

I had a sinking feeling when I bought the tickets the day before that this trip may not go quite as planned. I couldn’t get my point across to the guy behind the counter, but he gave me reservations for beds for two adults, so I knew we’d have some sort of place to rest our weary heads at the very least. Or so I thought…

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but having taken very nicely appointed trains elsewhere around Europe, I figured this journey would be fairly similar. Ho ho ho.

The train pulled in and we waited to embark among a large, milling crowd. It looked old and rather run down from the exterior, not at all like the nicer ICE trains I’d ridden before. I grew more nervous with every passing minute.

Finally it was time to board. The narrow passage proved a tight squeeze for all our baggage plus car seat plus stroller plus baby, so hubby lugged it all in piece by piece while I kept watch over the little guy outside. Every time hubby reappeared to grab another item, the looks he gave me grew more and more ominous. I quickly began to realize that this decision was going to be a mistake of colossal proportions.

The toddler and I climbed aboard. Fortunately, our beds were in the very first group of berths, so we didn’t have to go far. Unfortunately, the space was so tight, our largest bag wouldn’t fit into the “room.” We had to leave it in the hallway, and we were warned by the train staff not to leave it unattended. The hallway itself was narrow as well; people literally had to climb over the suitcase if they wanted to get by us.

Tickets are available in various classes — first class for a private section of berths, and peon classes where you may or may not find yourself sleeping with people you don’t know. Which do you think I’d managed to procure? Yep. You guessed it.

Our room, if you will, consisted of six bunks packed in like a sardine can, three on each side with well-worn, not-so-clean upholstery. When we came in, some fellow travelers were already there, two 40-something Asian ladies claiming the middle bunks. Our reservation denoted that we were to occupy the top two. Not exactly smart when there’s a two-year-old in the mix. The women were kind enough to trade us beds and immediately made themselves comfortable in the top bunks. Oh, did I mention the entire car REEKED of mothballs? I found myself mouthbreathing so I wouldn’t gag.

Everyone got settled in and we started to roll. Keep in mind, it was well after midnight by now. The toddler, who so graciously fell asleep in the taxi and stayed asleep right up until we boarded the train was now completely alert and ready to party like a rock star. The Asianettes hunkered down to sleep, yet the toddler was singing round after round of “Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs. There was no hope of getting him to lie down without an all-out screaming tantrum; we just had to wait him out.

We eventually took the toddler out into the hallway so our companions could get some rest and hubby took a seat on top of our lonely suitcase. The looks he was giving me went from ominous to murderous. The vocal stylings continued as the toddler then launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” followed by “Farmer in the Dell,” the Wonder Pets theme, “ABCs” and whatever else came into his little brilliant mind. At least the Asianettes didn’t mind, hubby poked his head in to get something and found them snoring like buzzsaws.

Hoping to wear the little guy down, hubby took him for a walk to find the dining car. Service was closed for the night, but at least it was empty and gave the little dude room to run around and play without disturbing anybody. I stayed behind to keep watch over the bag and tried to read. An hour later, they came back, hubby looking utterly defeated and pissed off. The toddler was still singing, and now skipping. Knowing I had some penance coming my way, I jumped up and took my lumps. The toddler and I headed back to the dining car again, weaving our way through six or seven other carriages full of quiet berths. I looked longingly at the private “suites” as we passed and mentally punished myself for not being able to convey that’s what I was after when I bought the tickets. Dammit.

After another hour or so of full-on hyperactivity, I managed to get the toddler to sit on my lap long enough to relax. Not sleep, mind you, but wind down enough to the point that when I asked him if he wanted to go lie down with daddy, I actually got a “yes.” Back we went, me trying to carry the toddler and not fall off the train in between cars, when I realized that I had no idea what number our carriage was. I figured we’d see hubby still sitting on the bag in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. Uh oh. I’d come to the last car of the train and just stood there, holding a weary toddler and wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t even have my phone to send a text; I’d left it in my purse back on my bed, wherever that was. Just as I was contemplating lying down in the middle of the dirty hallway and praying someone would find us in the morning, the interior curtains in the compartment parted right where I was standing and hubby motioned us inside. By some stroke of sheer luck, we were standing exactly where we needed to be.

Hubby had managed to wrestle the remaining suitcase into the middle of the floor in our room and squeezed himself into one of the middle bunks. The toddler went right to him without complaint when I handed him over and settled down to sleep. I climbed into the other bunk across. Thank GOD no other passengers showed up to the claim the two remaining beds on the bottom, I can’t imagine how two more people could have possibly fit into that room.

I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, trying not to touch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary and praying I still had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. The motion of the train was quite lulling, really. The jet-plane decibel snoring emanating from the bunk above me was not. I could not believe the noise this woman was putting out. Seriously, I was convinced at one point she was doing it on purpose. There is no way she could make that kind of a racket without waking herself up or choking to death in the process. I checked my watch. 3:45 a.m. Sigh. I closed my eyes and could literally feel the waves of resentment coming off my non-sleeping husband a few feet away. At least the toddler was depleted enough to get a solid stretch of shut-eye.

The Asian Rip Van Winkle finally woke up around 7:30 a.m., and she and her buddy started jabbering away in a language I didn’t recognize. The train conductor came by to check our tickets again. We knew we were running late, but when hubby asked him how much longer and he said another three hours, my jaw hit the floor. We were originally due in to Paris Bercy station at 8 a.m., leaving us plenty of time to take a cab to the rental apartment, drop our bags and shower before heading to the airport to collect my mother-in-law, who we’d arranged to fly in and stay with us for the weekend. As it was now, we’d be pushing to get there by the time her flight landed at 1:30 p.m. By that time, I was so exhausted, I did manage to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep for an hour or two. Really, there was nothing else to do.

At long last, we pulled into Paris around 11 a.m. I was never so glad to arrive anywhere in my entire life. Hubby told me not to speak to him unless I absolutely had to, which I respected, knowing I was totally in the wrong for this comedy of errors. I’d apologized a handful of times and didn’t know what more I could do or say to make things right, silently pledging to drug myself stupid next time and agree to get on whatever airplane might be available. I asked hubby if  he thought we’d look back on this experience someday and laugh. He said no.

Anxiously keeping an eye on the clock, we cursed some more when we saw the line for taxis extending halfway down the sidewalk outside the station. (And I wonder where the toddler recently picked up “Shit!”) Somehow by the grace of God, we eventually got a cab and made it to the rental apartment to meet the lady from the service who let us in. Hubby dashed off on his own to the airport, arriving with about 30 minutes to spare to meet my mother-in-law’s plane. Whew.

The two-bedroom Marais-situated apartment we’re renting is lovely, small but charming, up four flights of narrow winding stairs that are guaranteed to give me buns of steel after a few days. After a much-needed shower, the toddler and I ventured out for a bite of lunch at the first decent café we came across. Quiche Lorraine, salad, orange juice and a café crème fit the bill quite nicely. We managed a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essentials, then back to l’appartemente to meet up with hubby and MIL.

After a short rest, we all took a stroll around our old stomping grounds near the apartment where we stayed two years ago, stopping in for dinner at Cafe Rempart. Hubby had a traditional French croque monsieur – a devilishly rich open-faced toasted sandwich of ham and cheese with béchamel sauce. MIL enjoyed pomme frites, salad and a delicious-looking burger (which she ate in spite of the cheese. She hates cheese. This does not bode well for her enjoyment of French cuisine, I fear.) I was still somewhat full from my late-lunch quiche, so I went for a lighter dish of entrée Salade Rempart, composed of greens, carrots, tomato, fried potatoes (!), thin slices of proscuitto-ish country ham and cheese toasts. The whole thing was topped very lightly with French salad dressing, which is not at all like the unnaturally orange Kraft stuff you find back home. Here, it’s a light tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

This morning, we headed to another café and partook of coffee served in clever small bowls (LOVE this, I want to find some of these to take home), and stuffed ourselves with all manner of bread and pastries.

the perfect petit dejeuner

 

Gotta love the French… A great way to fortify ourselves for a boat ride on the Seine, a visit to the Eiffel Tower and a walk through Notre Dame. A bientot!

 

Mac-Daddy Mac and Cheese

If there’s one food I never get tired of cooking or eating, it’s pasta drenched with a creamy cheese sauce. Who doesn’t love a good bowl of mac and cheese? Actually, my hubby doesn’t, but he’s a picky eater (see previous post about the onions).

Homemade mac and cheese is one of my go-to meals; I often make it for myself when hubby’s out of town and I need a bit of TLC for my tummy. I have pleasant-enough childhood memories of the blue box Kraft version, but once you’ve learned to make a decent béchamel sauce from scratch, you’ll never go back to the powdery orange chemical stuff again.

I’ve been making béchamel for ages by gosh and by guess, since well before I knew the technical culinary term for it. Ever had a plate of biscuits and gravy? You’ve eaten a version of a béchamel. Once you’ve got the basics down, it’s a cinch to jazz it up however you like and put your own spin on it.

Several “Next Food Network Star” seasons ago, a lovely and deserving woman named Amy Finley won the title. However, Amy only went on to produce a handful of her French-food-themed shows before realizing the whole gig wasn’t for her and pulling the plug. Bummer. (Wonder if the runner-up’s still pissed? I would be!) I really liked Amy’s few shows that I saw, and from one episode, I took away a formula for perfect béchamel that I’ve used as a rule of thumb ever since.

Amy explained it very clearly – you follow a “2-2-2” measurement. Meaning: two tablespoons of flour, two tablespoons of butter, and two cups of milk.

For those of you playing along at home, here’s what you do. First, you melt the butter in a large skillet or saucepan over medium heat, add the flour and stir it in to create a roux. (Non-Food Network fans: roux is simply a thickening agent used in sauces and many other dishes.) The mixture will become pasty; continue stirring for just a few minutes to cook off the raw flour taste. Then you slowly stream in about half of the cold milk, constantly whisking to break up any lumps.

Once you’ve gotten the lumps worked out (this only takes a minute or so), whisk in the rest of the milk, add a pinch of nutmeg and a little salt and pepper. Whole milk is your best bet here, but I often use 2 percent just because it’s what I usually have on hand. Skim’s probably not a good idea, it won’t give you that really thick, creamy texture you’re looking for. To really take it over the top, you can use half & half instead of milk, or add a splash of heavy whipping cream right at the end. In any case, let your sauce come up to a slow simmer. Béchamel won’t reach maximum thickening until it hits a low boil, then all of a sudden, it turns into a creamy, luxurious consistency.

At this point, the possibilities are endless! You can throw in a few handfuls of shredded cheddar and a tiny bit of Dijon mustard to make a lovely cheese sauce for macaroni; or mix in a little bit of roasted garlic and some parmesan for a quick alfredo. Stir in some chopped fresh herbs and pour over cooked chicken breast. Use the sauce to top leftover cooked veggies and sprinkle with some toasted breadcrumbs for a quick gratin-esque side dish. Use it as an extra layer of filling in your favorite lasagna recipe. Melt in a handful of pepper jack cheese, a little minced jalapeno and a few pinches of chili powder and you’ve got a darn tasty queso concoction to dip your nachos into. See what I mean? Use your imagination!

Next time you’re strapped for ideas about what to make for dinner, try one of my favorite mac and cheese inventions: Boil up a pot of pasta; (I use the word “mac” loosely. I like rotini, penne or shells for this – they have lots of little nooks and crannies to hold all the sauce.) As the pasta boils, make your basic 2-2-2 béchamel sauce. When it comes up to a boil, stir in about a cup of shredded sharp cheddar a little at a time until it’s all melted in, then add a handful of frozen peas, some crumbled bacon bits and a diced fresh tomato. Drain your pasta and dump it into a big serving bowl. Pour the sauce over and toss to mix well. Garnish with some chopped fresh basil, serve with a fresh green salad and some garlic bread, and you’re guaranteed some happy diners.

Heck, I might even throw in some sautéed onions, but that’s just how I roll…