Flan Parisian (Vanilla Custard Tart)

It’s a cheese wheel! It’s a moon! It’s a flan Parisian!

Yes, a flan Parisian — not Parisien. Why? Because I’ve Americanized it… err, anglicized it… err, you know, made it less French. Sorta.

It’s not entirely a bad thing — at least not in this case.

While authentic flan Parisien is rich in sweet vanilla and milk, it’s also loaded with cornstarch and has this texture that’s not amazingly appetizing.

The French like it well enough (you can buy it at nearly any coffee shop in Paris), but, unless you plan on building a bouncy ball empire out of rubbery custard, I think this whole chewy flan thing could use a few improvements.

My version of flan Parisian (adapted after following what seemed to be a fairly authentic recipe to the letter and not enjoying the results anymore than I enjoyed flan in Paris) is a little more creamy, a little more eggy, and a little less caramelized on top than the real thing, but, well… I like my version a lot better.

Oh, and I baked it in a fluted tart shell, but gimme a break here — some people don’t bake it in a shell at all!

Cappuccino Bavarian Cream

Now that I have to wake up at 5:30 am at least five times a week, you’d better believe my caffeine addiction has kicked into high gear!

Stumbling into the ye-that-shall-not-be-named-global-coffee-chain and getting my drink of choice (a small quad-shot Americano, touch of cream and sugar) is a vital part of my morning routine.

As they pass me that steaming cuppa joe from behind the espresso machine, I always feel like Barney Gumble in that episode of the Simpsons, the one where he kicks his alcoholism until he’s presented with a massive amount of Duff beer for winning a short film contest and he shrieks, “JUST HOOK IT TO MY VEINS!”

Yeah — that’s me and coffee.

The only real downside to having that much espresso during the week is that I turn into such a grumpy bitch if I don’t get it on the weekends, too.

That’s okay, though — I don’t care if I’m addicted. Sweet, sweet Americano, you’re so much safer than cocaine!

Vintage Cream of Mushroom Soup

Mmmmm… mushrooms.

Don’t tell me! I already know — you either love ’em or hate ’em, right?

Mushrooms, like cilantro, seem to be one of those weird foods that really tend to polarize people. Some find them pleasing to the palate, while others want to run, failing and screaming, down the street.

See, I’m a mushroom lover. Fried in butter, poached in white wine, on my veggie burger, on my pizza, in my soup, in my salads, raw, cooked, whatever — they will all end up in my tum!

That said, this is a soup for lovers — mushroom lovers, baby. Oh, yes — I just had to go there.

It’s rich, it’s fatty (although not as rich and fatty as a cream soup could be), it’s creamy, and very, very mushroomy. For a recipe I found on the side of a soup cup in a junk store in Olalla, it’s surprisingly delicious and robust.

Vanilla Mousse with Black Plum & Basil Compote

Oh, I don’t wanna start off by complaining, but sometimes — most of the time — I absolutely loathe my camera (fellow bloggers will sympathize).

It’s a little piece of junk that hates taking photos of anything that’s too light, too dark, too white, too black, or too red or orange or yellow — which is basically everything after a while.

Goddamned jerk camera — and it’s all my fault for buying it, too!

Wouldn’t it be nice if, instead of taking photos, there just was a way to, like, beam flavours right into the brain?

Of course, until I either come into more money or technology takes a great leap forward, taking less-than-stellar photos and text communication is all I’ve got.

So, let me describe this with words: luscious and creamy vanilla mousse with touch of tangy sour cream, frolicking with sweet and tart black plum compote that sings of fresh basil and cinnamon.

Raspberry-Lavender Oat Scones

So, my last post was pretty brief and shallow.

It was just about bread. It had to be just about bread, because I couldn’t really think about anything else.

As I was writing on Sunday, I checked my voice mail and found out that my family’s dog, Twojay, had died. He was old and sick and I knew he was on his way out, but that doesn’t make his passing any easier.

He was a good dog — an adorably dumb, skinny yellow lab that never barked, never bit, would wag his tail so hard that he’d wiggle all over, and loved everyone.

So, I just wrote about bread, scheduled the post, had a good cry, and fell asleep.

It’s still hard to look at old photos of Twojay, but I’m sure that once the pain of losing him passes, I’ll be glad to have pictures to look back on in fondness.

Yeah.

There were things I wanted to write about, too — like, about how Laura over at Cake & Feminism has made an awesomely original blackberry brownie recipe (much less labour-intensive than my pull-apart bread if you need a quick blackberry fix) and how Alpaca-farmin’ Liz over at A Tablespoon of Liz has made vegan lavender shortbread (more lavender)!

Shout-outs make the blogosphere go ’round — not to mention that reading other baking blogs can keep me fairly distracted from real life.

I’m sure we’ve been through times when a little distraction helps in a big way.

Roséy Strawberry Cream Tart

Once upon a time, I only wanted to get drunk on fruity, girly cocktails.

I ate a lot of instant noodles, played a lot of video games, skipped a lot of school, and was content in my adolescent lifestyle.

When I went back to school and got serious, though, everything changed — I started out at Langara College, where I actually began to fit in, feel respected, and succeed (all at the same time!) for the first time in my life.

It was me on my path to becoming a proper adult.

Anyways, because I’d always liked reading and writing, I took a lot of English classes while collecting enough credits to transfer to UBC.

It didn’t take too long to notice that one of the many things my much-admired English profs were always talking about was wine.

Reading and drinking wine. Getting nice bottles of wine. Giving nice bottles of wine. Even the characters in the classic literature I read always seemed to be drinking in luxurious wine.

I knew what I had to do to be a proper adult, an adult like the English profs I aspired to emulate: I had to drink wine, too — even though I hated it!