Creme Caramel Quotes

It was evenings like that when beneath dim light and relaxing in a sultry bath that she missed him the most. A flicker of candlelight, wind breathing snow against the window and the soothing scent of creme caramel – all were a comfort to her as she closed her eyes, summoned memories and many a tender thought. She didn't feel deserving of the devotion bestowed upon her, but she had finally learned to accept its wondrous gift, knowing that love was the source of existence and its only end.

It's one of my own recipes: peach crème brûlée with a brandy crust." She paraded it past Daniel's eyes. "See," she said, "I made your favorite. Of course I perfected it considerably these past few weeks." She kept walking and deposited the dish in front of Troy. She poured over it a good douse of brandy, then rummaged in her apron and drew forth a long match. One flick and the brûlée ignited in a crown of blue flames. Troy's eyes widened with childish pleasure. "Here you go, my big man." Her spoon crunched into the caramelized topping and reemerged with rich, creamy, peachy dessert. On the plate, the velvety brûlée glistened with delicious, crackly caramel. Jasmine pushed forward a glass of Robert Mondavi's luscious Moscato d'Oro. "Bon appétit.

Propped on a small easel she uses for orders and ingredient lists is a request for a 'gateau Saint-Honore' bearing the legend "Together, Toujours" in scrolling Edwardian script. She attempts to calm herself with her work. It's a nicely time-consuming cake, though Avis finds it distasteful to deface her pastries with these slogans- even "Happy Birthday"- using fine creations as billboards. Today's order, from a Cutler Road matriarch, is an anniversary commandment- "till death do us..." Avis embarks on the journey of the cake which will require both the work of 'pate feuilletee,' and the 'pate a choux,' a carefully timed caramel, a 'creme patisserie,' as well as a 'creme Chantilly.

He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfunny, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

On the coffee table is a bottle of Madeira, a plate of dark chocolates, a bowl of tiny tangerines. He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfancy, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

Even with the quirky presentation, the food, Gemma had to admit, had been divine. From the creamy, smoky trout spread, to the delicate salad with roasted pears, caramel, and a local blue cheese, to the meltingly tender lamb and white beans served in camping tins, it had been of absolute star quality. What, Gemma had to wonder, was a chef so talented doing in this tiny village? She nibbled at the last bit of her pudding. The little jam jar she'd chosen had held a mixed berry crumble with a tangy layer of creme fraîche- a dessert she suspected she'd find herself dreaming about. All round her, spoons were being laid down and empty jars examined in hopes of finding a smidgen more.

The strawberry, he informs us, is a member of the rose family and its botanical name, Fragaria, means "fragrance." And while most people know it is the only fruit with seeds on the outside, it is actually not fruit at all but swollen stems. It is one of the few fruits to contain ellagic acid, a compound believed to prevent healthy cells from turning into carcinogenic ones. My classmates cluck their tongues at this. "And the best way to cook the fraises," he says in his distinct fresh accent, "is to barely cook them at all. Which is why my strawberry crème brûlée is so fantastic. Quick to make, delicious, and the texture of the berry remains firm." Combining strawberries in rum, sour cream, and cream plus a dash of fresh lemon juice in a bowl, he tosses the mixture and spoons it into ramekins. Ideally, he says, the strawberry mixture should be refrigerated for several hours to meld the flavors. However, since we're on a time crunch, he sprinkles each with brown sugar before sliding them under the broiler so the tops turn a crusty caramel in seconds.

We each get a ramekin to taste. Tapping my spoon against the brittle caramel shell, I am rewarded with the satisfying crunch that distinguishes the great brûlée. Underneath, the slightly tart strawberries remain red, fresh, and firm, bursting with flavor enhanced by the sweet rum and cream. So simple and light and, yet, so rich. I could linger forever, but already we are on to the next lesson: almond-infused hot white chocolate over iced berries. How bizarre. "Very popular in England," D'Ours observes, a tad derisively. I find myself strangely mesmerized by the melting of white chocolate chunks into heavy cream, a slight almond fragrance emanating as the mixture swirls and warms in the double boiler. I've never been a fan of white chocolate. I've never seen the point of chocolate without, well, chocolate. But I have a feeling I'm about to be converted. The frowning Angela distributes bowls with red and blue frozen berries slightly thawed. From a little pot, she pours the hot white chocolate sauce over them and it thickens immediately, on contact. To top it off, she sprinkles on a few chopped almonds. "Bon appétit," she snaps, filling my glass of champagne. Okay, I may have just passed dying and stepped directly into heaven. This is, hands down, the most fabulous thing I've ever eaten. It should be illegal, it's so good. And the weird thing is, it doesn't even taste like white chocolate over frozen berries. It's sweet and perfumed and something else entirely. It's gooey.