As luck would have it, I made and served my first soufflé for Hubby’s birthday dinner last week; before then, I’d never had cause or interest to make one. And thanks to Kellie’s prodigious buttering lesson for the molten chocolate...
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As luck would have it, I made and served my first soufflé for Hubby’s birthday dinner last week; before then, I’d never had cause or interest to make one. And thanks to Kellie’s prodigious buttering lesson for the molten chocolate cakes, these soufflés puffed up proudly and came to the table without falling. I was delighted that I hadn’t ended up with a béchamel glop. Hubby was sweetly complimentary. I was disappointed by the first soufflé I ever ate: a chocolate soufflé at The Cellar, an otherwise lovely little restaurant in Fullerton, California. For years I had heard about the complexities associated with making a soufflé; I imagined that it was an elite litmus test dividing chefs from cooks. Presented with the opportunity to try one, I couldn’t resist, particularly as I was informed by the perfectly correct maitre d’ that it would take a full twenty-eight minutes to prepare. In imagining a transcendent culinary experience, I had no hope but to be disappointed; what came was no doubt an excellent chocolate soufflé. But to my taste buds, it was simply a hyper-chocolately puff of air doused with chocolate sauce. That was in 1989; and until last week, I had not had another soufflé. I’m not sure what possessed me to try; but in my head, I wanted something that would incorporate the fresh goat cheese I’d picked up at the Farmer’s Market on a recent foray to Atlanta, and I wanted it to be ethereally pale and light (the “pale” part of the “Pale Fire” dinner ). A soufflé presented itself as a possible choice. “It’s all about timing,” a friend once said when I noted that I did not care for soufflés. This was a portent of ill things for me as I lack timing. Coupled with an occasional failure of grace and you can understand why I have managed to walk into walls at full speed. (“I see them coming. I just don’t veer out of the way until it’s too late.”). And do you have any idea how intimidating it is to have a husband who can dance on a syncopated beat? But when have I ever shown common sense in approaching the stove top? I scoured recipes and read what I could about soufflés. I discovered “twice baked” soufflés. Having always believed that soufflés were subject to the J.I.T. (“just in time”) principle (“If you should care for the chocolate soufflé, please be advised that you must order it now; the chef will require twenty-eight minutes in which to make it.”), I was intrigued. Make them in advance, refrigerate them, then reheat them shortly before serving. However, I was mistrustful of my abilities to produce a twice baked soufflé that wouldn’t come out of the kitchen tough (visions of the inherently inedible twice baked potatoes I have been served in the past dancing in my head), and too indoctrinated with the concept that soufflés must be made to order. I decided that some portions -- the roux, cheese base and egg whites could be made ahead of time, but assembled only when I was ready to pop them in the oven. Twenty-eight minutes before serving, I incorporated the whipped egg whites into the creamy Asiago and chèvre base. Spooning the soufflé mixture into heavily buttered ramekins, I placed them into the oven, set two timers to counteract my timing problems, and said a silent prayer to Vatel, all the while concocting a fake French name for the dish in the event that disaster struck (marketing is everything). Luckily, soufflés emerged from the oven. The soufflés I made tonight didn't have the same high top as last week's, but the flavor of the cheeses...mmmm. The best part? These soufflés were made two days ago -- twice baked. Tagged with: IMBB # 20 + Souffle
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