Soufflé Virgin
I’m not sure how I made it to age 36 without ever having made a soufflé. Maybe because in my mind, a soufflé was the legendary nemesis of the 1960’s housewife. Didn’t Samantha from Bewitched have to twitch her nose to get one to come out right? Didn't she have to call Dr. Bombay?
So I’m not sure either how it came to be that my footsteps today led me out of the kitchen at noon, and right back in at 4pm (though I’d sworn I’d stay out until 6pm), determined to make a soufflé.
After lunch, the couch seriously beckoned. I’d gone so far as to have the blanket around my shoulders, when in a fit of “I’m almost 40!” angst, I dropped the blanket and said “No! This isn't to be borne!" So I grabbed my faithful bound edition of Cusine at Home (Volume II), and headed out into the snowstorm to the Y. This time, however, it was a picture of a beautiful, classic cheese soufflé that caught my eye as I Life-Cycled my way right back into the kitchen.
I don’t know who writes the Cuisine at Home articles; none of them are ever credited but they are all written in the first person and have this get-down-to-business, benevolent tone:
Making soufflés is scary. You have to hold your breath and walk on tiptoes to keep them from falling, right? Then they still fall. Well, get over it! The scariest thing about making a soufflé is the anticipation. . .Heck, the word soufflé means “to breathe”. Imagine it exhaling a big sigh as it falls.
“A soufflé is an egg at its most dramatic,” the omnipresent writer goes on to say. Guided by a list of ingredients and instructions, as well as explanations on the base, egg whites, the cheese, beating, temperature, and folding, I dilligently got down to business (well, as dilligently as I could; the neighbor boy was over and proceeded to pee his jeans because Kipp was making him laugh too hard; so there were some other things to tend to). calling Dr. Bombay, come right away. . .help!
What impressed me most? The procedure for making the béchamel. I’ve made béchamel before—every time my little boy requests Nigella’s chicken pie, I’m béchamelling away--but I’ve never simmered & steeped the milk beforehand with ½ an onion, a bay leaf, 2 cloves and 1/2 tsp. whole peppercorns. This wonderfully savory milk was then drained and added to the roux.
Then I beat the egg whites into pretty, glossy peaks, and gently folded them into the bechamel mixture, alternating the whites with Gruyère.
I didn’t have a proper soufflé dish; I improvised with a sort of casserole thingy, and baked for 24 minutes until the top was brown and the whole thing slightly jiggly.
If I were Martha Stewart (no need to worry), I'd say languidly (or valium-inducedly as some claim) "It was sooooo perfect". Me being me, I say, delighted at this bit of hit-or-miss kitchen good fortune, "Hey, it was perfect!." Just like in the picture, nice and pouffy.
My souffle virginity was two-fold because not only had I never made one, I had never eaten one either. How was it? Very reminiscent of gougeres, not surprisingly, given the ingredients, but with a completely different texture: creamy and airy at the same time and more substantial, almost bread-like at the bottom. As I ate it I craved green salad and had to toss some lettuce in a bowl. I probably ate 1/3 of it; my little boy ate some unflinchingly and my husband said it was good--then proceeded to get busy with his steak. All in all, I think I left the table feeling most satisfied. I don’t feel like I need to eat another thing for a good 24 hours--a testament to the staying power of fat and protein--and a little air.
9:36:43 PM 
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