Monday, May 05, 2003

As it turns out, Sunday afternoon is not the ideal time to shop at Fairway.  I knew this intellectually, of course, and I went in prepared to exercise a Zen-like restraint of motion and emotion.  It’s all about taking it slow; don’t dart around, don’t get frantic.  Fly like the butterfly, sting like the bee.  I kept whispering to Eric under my breath as we moved through the produce aisle, “Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm….”  I was even charmed into a good mood by the sight of a classic Upper West Side Crazy Lady rolling her cage of lovebirds on one of those Old Lady Dollies through the Sunday crush at Fairway.  But by the end of it, my mood had, shall we say, changed.  There is nothing like a giant press of humanity to remind you how much you hate people, really.  And I can’t help thinking that Fairway keeps its prices down by not bothering with the whole customer services family of expenses.  And the skinny-minny little bitch ahead of me in line eyed my veal roast with disgust.  Which is fine, because I was eyeing her two dozen balance bars.  The day that turn to a prefabricated bar-shaped food for sustenance is the day that I completely renounce my humanity. I was finally going to make the dreaded Diplomate – Custard with Glaceed Fruit.  Might as well do it while there was no fear of anyone dropping by and having to eat it.  Started by smooshing a lot of strawberries through a sieve.  This for the strawberry sauce that would be going on top.  Smooshing strawberries through a sieve is, as it turns out, a pain in the ass, but I did it.  Then I whipped the juice up in a blender with some superfine sugar, and added lemon juice. I soaked some raisins and candied orange peel in some kirsch.  I lined the bottom of my new charlotte mold with waxed paper.  (Yes, I bought a charlotte mold, at the Broadway Panhandler – my second time in there in less than a month.  I have learned something discouraging there.  I’ve always liked to think that as much as I’m annoyed by many of the accouterments of the “foodie” cult, generally people who like to eat are a good bunch, with their heads screwed on right and their priorities in line.  After two shopping trips to Broadway Panhandler, I am beginning to fear that such is not the case.  Both times I’ve been in there, I’ve been surrounded by assholes bitching about the nonexistence of correctly shaped frittata pans or 6-quart Le Crueset casseroles in lime green or some such shit.  I find it very depressing.  What’s next?  Dog-lovers as uptight fascists?) I soaked a package of ladyfingers – yes, I bought the ladyfingers, and I’m not ashamed, I’m proud – in a mixture of kirsch and water, and let them drain on a rack.  Then I lined the bottom and sides of the charlotte with them, just as Julia instructs.  The packaged ladyfingers worked so much better for this – I could trim them easily, they held their shape.  My conclusion is that there is simply no reason to make these on your own.  At least, not for me to.  Only problem was, there was not quite enough of them to completely line the sides of the mold, so I spaced them out a little.  I beat together two eggs, three egg yolks, and half a cup of sugar with my new big honking balloon whisk, which I like a lot.  Then I beat in two cups of boiling milk, heated up with microplaned orange rind, and the strained kirsch that the raisins and orange peel had been soaking in.  I poured a ladleful of the eggy stuff into the mold – the eggy stuff just soaked entirely into the ladyfingers, but no matter.  I layered on a handful of raisins, then a few tablespoons of apricot preserves which I’d – oh, I’d forgotten this part – melted in a pan and forced through a sieve.  Then I layered on some of the broken-up ladyfingers I had left over.  I kept on making these layers until I’d used up all the eggy “custard.”  Since some of the ladyfingers I’d used to line the sides of the mold were sticking up out of the top of the custard, I trimmed them and stuffed the ends down into the custard, in the spaces along the sides that I hadn’t lined before with ladyfingers.  Then I put the mold in a pan, in a 325° oven, and poured boiling water into the pan.  I bake that for an hour. While that was doing, I made some Sauce Riviera.  This is Mayonnaise Verte – mayonnaise, made in a blender because why not, after all, with an herb puree of parboiled spinach, shallots, watercress, parsley and tarragon – into which is beat in a mixture of softened cream cheese, minced capers, minced sour pickles, and minced anchovies.  It is very, very good when served on a sandwich of roast beef we bought at Citarella on ciabbatta bread.  We ate that while watching True Romance, which is one of the truly great, underrated movies of all time. The Diplomate wound up, not much to my surprise, being not nearly the success the Sauce Riviera and Roast Beef Sandwiches were.  I unmolded it and cut us some slices, poured some strawberry sauce on top, and it looked alright – like a bread pudding, really.  But my God, this stuff was just toxically sweet.  Ugh.  Maybe if I’d used rum instead of kirsch it would have been some better.  But rum would not have helped the rubbery horrible texture of the candied orange peels.  But mostly just – ick – sweet-sweet.  Not something I will ever want to eat again.  Which is a shame, since we have a mound of the stuff the size of my head in the fridge.  Ah well.  Sometimes, in the Julie/Julia Project, you have to break a few eggs to make a crappy dessert. 7:57:31 AM    comment []