Living On a Prayer

"Three tablespoons? How can there only be three tablespoons of flour in this whole recipe?" I demand.

"I dunno. I mean, isn't souffle supposed to be difficult to pull off?" Mr Gastro asks, "Isn't that the whole deal with souffle?"

"Difficult, sure, but nobody told me it would require the use of witchcraft. How is that even possible?"

It's true, the recipe for vanilla souffle in Mastering the Art of French Cooking features shockingly little actual solid matter to hold together all that liquid. Four egg yolks, five whites (beaten until they beg for mercy), butter, milk, vanilla extract, a little sugar, sure...and THREE TABLESPOONS OF FLOUR. I couldn't help but picture each individual speck of flour, magically suspended midair on a fluffy white cloud of egg white and desperate prayer, making no contact whatsoever with his fellow flour molecules. In fact even now, after this little experiment is over, that's still kinda how I think it works.

Anyway, the seemingly impossible nature of this recipe made it that much more necessary for me to try it, so tonight I recruited Mr. Gastro to photograph the proceedings for posterity.

Julia is pretty specific here that you should measure out your ingredients ahead of time. This is one of those things I am not always on top of, but in this instance I am putting my faith in J.C (so to speak)and doing as I am told. And boy am i glad I did. I'm not saying that everything would have fallen apart had I not measured out my vanilla and granulated sugar ahead of time. I'm just saying that throughout the process, I was glad I didn't have to worry about it. It's one of those recipes.

"It's only dessert,"I tell myself as I am whisking egg yolks into the cooked flour and milk bouillie on the stove. "What's the big deal? Follow the recipe, and everything will turn out fine."

Now anyone who has ever made a souffle, eaten a souffle, heard of souffle, or inadvertently blurted out "souffle!"as they sneezed can tell you that the key to a successful souffle is in the egg whites. Fail to beat them within an inch of their lives and that souffle isn't rising, period. Sure, it might get a little puffy, but in order to achieve what Julia Child refers to as "magnificence," they have to be thick, smooth, and hold their peaks. So

my confidence waned a bit as my trusty KitchenAid mixer got to work on the egg whites, but not to worry; within moments my egg whites were transformed from runny, slimy goo into snowy white peaks you could ski down. Oh, and a note for the over-ambitious: Many recipes refer to whipping up the egg whites by hand in order to create this magical effect, but that is because many of these recipes pre-date the ubiquitousness of the at-home stand mixer. You definitely don't need a fancy KitchenAid mixer to get the required consistency; a hand-held mixer will do just fine. But I can't see how any mere mortal could produce these silky stiff egg whites using only a wire whip and some elbow grease. Don't be a hero. Use the mixer.

The egg whites are folded into the bouillie (gently, gently, oh so gently...), and the bouillie into

the porcelain ramekins, and I am once again full of confidence seeing my pretty little ramekins full and ready to go into the oven. "THIS IS GONNA BE GREAT!"I insist, and Mr. Gastro smiles at me indulgently and says "gooooood..." before returning to his book. He is retreating into the pages of his vintage cocktail manual because he knows me, and he knows what is coming next. I put the ramekins into the oven...

And I pray.

I'm not kidding. I am praying over my souffle. Why? Because everything is now out of my hands. What happens in that oven has to do not with me and my efforts, but with chemistry, and I never had much of a grasp of chemistry.

"This isn't going to work," I say, peering into the oven.

"It will be fine," Mr. Gastro says.

"Okay. okay. It will be okay. Hey, I know, if my souffle falls and this is a horrible failure I can title the blog 'Deflated.' That will be cute, right?"

Mr. Gastro just shakes his head.

And then like magic, they start to rise. One minute I am discussing my comedic blogging options in the face of certain catastrophe, and the next I am putting my face as close to the oven door as I dare, whispering "THEY'RE RIIIIIIISING!!!" Everything from here on out happens in a whisper. I am standing two inches away from my oven, whispering like I have a colicky baby in there that I am afraid will wake up and start to scream. I literally tip-toe through my kitchen for the duration of this process. Why? I don't know. I guess i saw it on TV one time. And I am certain that my souffle would not have fallen had I spoken in a normal tone of voice, but I also guarantee that when it is your turn...you will whisper too.

About halfway through the process I am instructed to remove my souffle and dust it with powdered sugar. "Are they INSANE?" I demand in a croak. I do manage to pull them out, Mr. Gastro behind me to open and close the oven door with smooth, friction free movements. Just then, as if god is reinforcing to me that no, this cannot actually be this easy, I accidentally tap one of the five, just slightly, with my oven mitt, and watch as it slowly, incrementally falls.

"It's okay,"Mr. Gastro whispers, like I'm a small child who just received a baseball to the head, and this is that terrible half second of silence before the wailing begins. I keep it together. We slip the surviving souffles into the oven, along with their sad, flat sister, and we wait. And pray some more. And then...then...

SUCCESS.

Sweet, sweet success. They are oh so pretty, and perch several inches over the tops of their containers. We place our souffles on two little plates decorated with the powdered sugar ghost of a spoon, and dig in. It seems almost a shame to deflate and eat something that you've just spent so much time and effort creating, but then I remind myself that food is for eating, and so I do.

I realize now that this is the first time I have even eaten souffle, let alone made it, and so I am surprised by the lightness in the mouth, the simplicity of the flavor, the slightly crisp crack of sugar on the crust. It's lovely, but then I've never had another souffle, so I don't know if this is the correct brand of lovely.

"Is it okay?" I ask.

"Mm hmm!" Mr. Gastro replies.

"No, I mean, sure, it's okay, but like, is it okay enough that you would want me to make it again?"

"Well lets see," Mr. Gastro says, "If you're not sure it's perfect, you could..." he takes another bite, "always practice some more..." another bite, "or do it with chocolate..." he finishes his souffle. "I mean... I guess I wouldn't mind if you wanted to keep practicing."