The right way to make flan
In case you’re wondering (and you shouldn’t be) I did NOT make this flan.
My friend Marisa’s mom made it. The right way. And in little ramekins. She sent three small portions up the street to me and the nits. They were jewels of perfection.
“Now this,” said the boy, tucking into his, while I hunched over the dishes in the sink trying to keep a poker face, “is a good flan.”
“The first difference, look at the way it’s shaped.” He’d insisted I carve it out of the ramekin and turn it upside down onto a plate. A festive plate at that. Better that we could inspect its perfect cake-like shape and creme-brulee topping.
“The second difference … mmmmm.” He smacked his lips. “Delicious. Light. Not as eggy or milky as yours was.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
“The third difference …”
“Are you gonna go on like that all night or are you gonna eat your flan?”
“…Mom. Look at the perfect sauce.”
I grunted.
Sure, Mary’s flan was perfect. It was her recipe I’d attempted, after all, so she would know how to do it. And yes, it was glorious to behold and tasted like a restaurant dessert. But didn’t I get any points at all for trying it in the first place?
Flan, all gone
“Maybe you could try it again,” the boy ventured. “But do it right this time.”
Such childish innocence and optimism. Sigh.
Stay tuned…
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