Thanks to the resourcefulness of my English professor, I was able to leaf through the yellowing pages of accumulative cuisine and contemplate cooking such things as “squirrel pot pie” or “turtle soup.” It was somewhere in the midst of reading through the eighty plus recipes for pie, I realized that I was already developing a fierce appreciation for the Olympic feat that was expected of women three times a day.
Diving into my apron strings with a scowl more common on Rosie the Riveter, than a domestic diva, I stared down the recipe for chocolate soufflé. As I followed the recipe with an attentiveness that those working with unstable potentially deadly particles were more used to, my brow perspired under my faux 40’s bangs. Eggs were successfully separated. Dry ingredients were stealthily sifted. Bakers chocolate was masterfully melted, and the batter was patiently poured.
With the beeping of the stove I rushed eagerly to free my labor-intensive desert. I pulled out the tray, their browned tops raising high towards the sky and as I set them atop the cooktop they promptly collapsed.
Now I had heard that soufflés were tricky creatures when it came to this point but I never expected it to happen to me. My second batch proved no hardier than the first and I finally just gave up, plopped the desert equivalent of ketchup (cool whip) on top and enjoyed the failed-feast of my labor.
My hat is off to you though Great Gram, and anyone else that had to for-go the ease of boxed cakes, order-in dinners, and ramen noodles.
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