Vanilla and Eggs

So, you'll never guess where I ended up last night?

Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.

I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).

Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.

I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.

Créme Pátissiérie.

It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.

I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.

I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.

I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.

I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.

Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.

The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.