A lack of thinspiration

 

(This should have been posted yesterday, but I got distracted and didn't get round to it. Still, better late than never...)

I’ve had a day off all to myself. The last for a long time (everybody wants to get married in August). I have achieved much, including running errands for Diesel in town, doing ALL of the washing, cleaning the whole flat (minus the bathroom, Diesel it is definitely your turn), and completing a six kilometre personal best at the gym, all before three pm. Excellent work I thought to myself smugly, settling down in front of our new PC (we have two monitors and everything. Before you ask, I don’t know why we have two monitors) fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to write another blog post, and actually have time to enjoy it, rather than do it under the steely gaze of Diesel who is desperate for me to put the laptop down so we can watch the latest episode of ‘The Killing’. However, I upsettingly found that I didn’t know what to write. I was all out of ideas. My inspiration was gone. Desperately I went and made myself a cup of green tea, then straightened all the books in my bookshelf, and then arranged all of the cups in the cupboard in size order (I never realised before how many cups we own. We must be up to about 16, there are only two of us living here and if we do have people round and we offer them a drink, cups are never the appropriate receptacle). I then went and sat back down at the computer. Still nothing. What had I eaten recently of any note? Salad. Soup. More salad. Had I drunk any nice wine recently? Nope, you’re on a stop-getting-chunky-start-getting-healthy kick remember you total loser, after you had a big one last week and decided that you couldn’t take the pace anymore (I’m actually writing to myself here. Dear God). It isn’t that right now I don’t feel amazing, or that I haven’t made some pretty awesome salads this week, it’s just that I feel a bit like I’ve lost my food mojo. 

The sun is shining in Guernsey today, I have some great friends over here, but without the promise of a bit of a wine and naughty food blow out (I’d previously decided to try to lay off the booze this weekend and have a ‘sensible’ Friday night dinner), I guess I feel a bit deflated. So, not to be defeated, I hit upon the idea of having a read of some other food blogs that I particularly enjoy. Most notably, http://carolcookskeller.blogspot.com/ this (very brave) woman took it upon herself to cook everything in The French Laundry Cookbook (I own this, and have never attempted to cook anything from it) and write about it. She has finished it now and moved onto the Alinea cookbook (I do not own it, but even if I did would probably never attempt to cook anything from it). It really is a great blog, her writing is funny and engaging, and in most cases the food that she cooks looks delicious. I was immediately sucked in by the pastry recipes she did, notably the iles flotaine recipe, which is when it hit me. I only really, really get excited when I’m making (or thinking about making) things that are a bit naughty. When I make something delicious, I want to talk about it. What were all the salads doing to me? Come to think of it, what had I eaten that was truly delicious today? I need ice cream. Goddamn it I OWE myself ice cream. It’s the least I could do. Or a crepe with Nutella and banana. Another salad for dinner? Fuck that, it’s Friday. Tonight we will dine on fillet steak with garlic butter and homemade chips and iles flotaine for pudding, and complement it with a bottle of fine wine. No, not followed by a raft of Jaegerbombs (perhaps I just need to learn about ‘moderation’), but enough to remind me that it is Friday, I work bloody hard, and nobody likes a loser that eats salad on a Friday.

With all this in mind, I banged my hands on the table and stood up full of resolve, scanned my shelves for Ramon Blanc (Very simple iles flotaine recipe, thank you very much Ramon), grabbed my wallet and headed back into town. A trip to the local co-op allowed me to purchase the goods required, and I swung by the amazing French patisserie on my way home to pick up a vanilla and pecan ice cream because well, I just ruddy bloody wanted to. It was delicious. I then came home, sat back down in front of the laptop and started writing. It’s been a pleasure.

(By the way, I can't take the credit for the above photo. I took from http://www.eataduckimust.com/ Please take a look at it, their photos are beautiful!)

Iles flotaines

(meringues)

6 free-range egg whites

squeeze lemon juice

120g caster sugar

1 litre full-fat milk, preferably organic

2 tsp vanilla extract

(vanilla cream)

10 free-range egg yolks

80g caster sugar

ice cubes

For the meringues, whisk the egg whites and lemon juice in a clean bowl until it reaches soft peak stage. Add the sugar a third at a time, whisking after each third, until stiff peaks form.

Bring the milk and the vanilla extract to the boil in a large, shallow, lidded pan. Reduce the heat until the mixture is just simmering. Dip 2 tablespoons in hot water, and then make 8 quenelles (three sided shapes) of the meringue mixture, using the spoons to shape the meringue. Carefully lower each quenelle of meringue into the simmering milk. Cover the pan with the lid and poach for 7-10 minutes, turning the meringues over halfway. Remove the poached meringues from the pan using a slotted spoon and set aside to drain on a small tray until needed. Reserve the milk and keep hot.

For the vanilla cream, lightly whisk the egg yolks and caster sugar in a mixing bowl until smooth. Slowly add the hot milk to the egg yolks, whisking continuously, then return this to the pan and heat over a medium heat, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon until the custard is thick enough to coat the back of the spoon. Pour the custard into a large serving bowl over a bowl of ice to stop the custard cooking immediately and stir occasionally until it is fully cool. Once cooled, transfer to a serving bowl and float the poached meringues on top of the cooled custard and serve. Eat, safe in the knowledge that Escoffier would be proud of you.