Today my making custard is a statement against chaos.
I am still. I behold these ingredients; I will know these ingredients. It's process nearly as much as product that's the thing.
The simplicity of custard betrays any shortcut. This is the reason it's irreconcilable with commercialisation. Making it oneself, though--good eggs, good cream, good vanilla--a reflection of their perfection.
I find all variations satisfying to make: custard cream (crème Anglaise, here), ice cream, crème brulée, sabayon, or stand-alone-nearly-needs-a-capital-C custard.
When making it, I'm becoming more and more brazen. It started with not preparing an icebath to halt cooking in case it goes too far. Then I went to using higher temperature. I've now taken to allowing myself to step away for a few seconds at the beginning of cooking. But as much as I admit there's a degree of bravado, it's in essence an exercise in Zen attunement: I know my pot, my hob, I know custard, I know time well enough. Disaster will strike one day, but it will be a canary in the mine rather than a thing to note in itself. At the key moments though, everything else is shut out and all my concentration is on it: not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet, now. Even looking into my ramekin drawer, I feel stillness.
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