Rhubarb And Custard Quotes

Imagine This Life is not a bowl of cherries Ignore what's in the song It's not a bowl of things at all The song you see, is wrong Think of it as rhubarb And don't forget the custard A mixture of the sharp and sweet And a word to say when flustered.

We are cooking together again, and he asked me to pick up some salad greens and a loaf of something "Italian-ish," so my tote bag is brimming with bunches of peppery arugula and tender lamb's lettuce and a half loaf of Rick's pane pugliese, a crusty Italian peasant bread with a delicate, open crumb and slightly sour, caramel flavor. For dessert, I decided to buy half of one of Rick's rhubarb crumble tarts---vanilla custard encased in a tender shortbread crust and topped with roasted chunks of ruby rhubarb and a buttery oatmeal crumble

Our take on a rhubarb and custard," Susan announces. "Rhubarb sorbet on the bottom, topped with whipped custard and a candied rhubarb sweet." It's served in small egg-shaped glasses, so you can see the layers: bright pink sorbet on the bottom, rich lemon-yellow custard, whipped to airy delicacy, topped with a wafer-thin, jewel-like disc of rhubarb that's been roasted, pressed flat, and encased in rhubarb-flavored praline. The chef takes two bites of it, then sits back, sighs, and looks at his plate for a while. Susan feels like melting into the floor. He hates it! What went wrong? Is it too simple? She worried about that. Maybe she should have done a tart or a mille-feuille. "This tastes of summer," the chef says at last. "Every bit of it is delightful and delicious- it's so light and airy and enjoyable." "I totally agree," says the presenter. "It's the perfect follow-up to something as heavy as those ribs, and the flavors remind me of rhubarb and custard sweets, which really takes me back." "Yeah, me too." The blogger nods. "Raiding the sweet shop after school.

Many years ago, around the early 1980's, I penned a story about fruit crumble in a rather delightful, now defunct, magazine called Food Illustrated. The point of the piece was not so much the crust (to which I suggested adding coarse brown sugar or ground almonds or oats) or the luscious fruit (gooseberries, damsons, rhubarb or plums) that lay sleeping beneath. The point was to identify what I consider to be the best bit, neither crust nor crumble but the layer of fruit-soaked dough that lies just beneath the crust. It is often a rich purple color or, in the case of apple crumble, the hue of heather honey. The hidden dough takes on a consistency that is both dry and wet and for which the most accurate description might be plumptious, if that was actually a word. I referred to it then as the undercrust, a term I have watched slowly spread. The undercrust of a crumble is only one of several such silken treats that await us. The layer of soggy dough where shortcrust pastry meats gravy in a steak or chicken pie for instance. The point at which custard meets sponge in a trifle or, now I come to think of it, that bit of the suet dumpling that sits in the sauce of the stew, richly sodden with flavor and plump with aromatic liquor.

Those cherry madeleines were astonishing. It was absolutely genius to pair them with cucumber and dill sandwiches, and the delicacies of your macarons... Crepes alive, you should win the episode." Freya giggled and glanced over at her. "Did you just say, 'Crepes alive,' Claire? Baking nerd alert." Claire shrugged, still grinning. "I was raised in a pub, and my parents wanted to keep us from using that kind of language that might be overheard at the White Fox, so we had to make up all kinds of expressions. Mine just happened to be baking related--- son of a biscuit, sugar, crepes alive, cake and a custard." "You might be the biggest dork ever," Freya told her, still laughing. "But your rhubarb crème brûlée tartlets were awesome. Daring to do the mushroom vol-au-vents, but it worked out.