Well, apparently I'm not the first crazy woman to decide to work my way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking one recipe at a time. A "renegade foodie" named Julie Powell set out to cook through the book (both volumes? not sure yet) back in the early Aughts (that means the '00s, as in the '60s, for you uninitiated), calling her endeavor the Julia-Julia Project ("365 days. 536 recipes. One girl and a crappy outer borough kitchen.)." Click the title of this post to get to her site. I haven't really read it, yet. I ran across a link to it in an old Forbes mag article called "The Best Food Blogs" or something like that. My project would be far more poetic if my name were Julia, too, but alas, I must content myself with the name of Anne Bolyen's mother. Poor me. All the Dukes of Norfolk -- do they frown that I am looking so fondly toward their French brethren and sistren? Or do they smile at my deluded pretensions of bastard offshootedness? Either way, I continue.
My goal is to work my way through both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. But without timetable. You see, I intend to master each recipe. Why move on if a dish has not been mastered? Isn't the title a command, after all? What do we think Mrs. Child meant when she (and her et. als.) named the book? Mastering. A sub-intention is to memorize certain key recipes, like the basic souffle. This seems quite practical to me.
Since I've been making bechamel sauce from a tender age (thank you, Mother), I started there and mastered it all at the same time. The book was helpful in straightening out some proportion questions I should have dealt with long ago -- I've always just eyeballed it. I like the way Julia's turns out, though, and am memorizing the proportions for the various thicknesses of the sauce. Such a useful sauce!
Bechamel is the base for souffle, and so to it I quickly proceeded. The Princess kindly consented to be my taster. Julia is very reassuring in the recipe -- she's all about the simplicity of the souffle. And it is such a lovely, simple list of ingredients and pure flavors.
I figured getting the freshest eggs possible, the nicest whole milk, freshest unsalted butter, and nuttiest Swiss cheese would insure an non-mediocre project, and I'm sure I was correct about that. Luckily I can get same-day-laid eggs at the Soulard Market, just three blocks from my house. Once that was done, it was just a matter of following the "simple" instructions.
All seemed well, I prepared everything a just in advance of The Princess's arrival except for the whipping and folding in of the eggs, just as Julia said I might. We sipped a nice champagne-like Cava while I beat the eggs, then tenderly folded them into the bechamel-yolk mixture. But the souffle didn't rise above the top of my dish, looking all dramatic and French. It just sat there, looking like the fluffy omelet from the Better Homes and Gardens '60s edition cookbook. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's delicious. But it's not a souffle.
The Princess and I eyed it, suspiciously. What the .... I had been so painstaking. What happened? She said, "I have the same problem with my biscuits." I do, too! What's up wid 'at? Is there something in a certain human chemistry that interacts with the magic raising ingredients in biscuits and souffles and makes them sit there and not get all high and billowesque as they should? My eggs were, I was sure, beaten (yes, from room temp) to the perfect stiffness. I was gentle and focused in my folding of them into the bechamel/yolk mixture. Why didn't it work? What magic touch must I develop? Really, could it be chemical?
If it's not, then it is process. Or, if it is chemical, is there a process adjustment that might cure the trouble?
And herein lies the difference between myself and Julia-Julia. I am going to keep working on The Original Julia's souffle recipe until it comes out perfectly, three times in a row. That's my pledge. No matter how long it takes. As I said to the Princess, "The ingredients are cheap." Eggs, milk, butter, cheese, flour, salt, white pepper. No truffle oil, French chocolate, or Italian lemons. Can I manage one souffle a week? Probably. Because I'll tell you what, the one that didn't rise completely (it did get halfway up the dish) was delicious. Not a huge sacrifice to keep on trying.
So, onward to the souffle kitchen. I'll let you know how it goes. And in the mean time, if anyone would like to share their souffle experience, please do! Have you overcome a non-rising deficit? Or did yours puff up like Nixon on the first try?
Ta-ta for now!
M
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