The sky is an obscure shade of blue that I saw once while picking out paint colors; my first arbitrarily artistic sentence is out of the way. Having saved my money from my tenure as a model and bohemian, my vaguely European husband and I have bought a Mediterranean vineyard — the perfect opportunity to become a renowned cook through the natural talent I have not yet verified. Setting myself to work, I plan on making a very photogenic quiche served with the freshly cultivated organic baby laughs that I acquired from my bountiful kitchen garden this morning. If you are not so inclined as to grow baby laughs yourself, they can be found at any reputable market.
It’s hard raising perfectly precocious children, but I still find the time to enjoy cooking complex meals and look like a yachting catalog model. Perhaps my efficiency and Spanx-less smooth figure comes from my multi-ethnic background; being an eighth something brown and one-sixth borzoi. I think growing up in three countries at the same time broadened my ability to speak ambiguously accented English and do things particularly twee. In any case, I wrap up all of these wonderfully eclectic things and soak my cooking in them before setting it ablaze with love and general superiority.
As I roll out the crust, all six of my children under the age of ten bustle into the kitchen closely followed by the family’s rare breed truffle dog, yet no mud is on my kitchen floor. The children have just come from feeding the free-range chickens and have dirty faces, but only in the cute way, like orphans in a BBC period drama. Having them run in and out of the house is not the least bit distracting.
When making the filling I catch a glimpse of my hands. They’re perfect except for one scar on my pinky I got in an outrageously amusing story I save for parties. For a brief second, I think that it might detract from the pictures for my upcoming cookbook, but on second thought it’s very becoming. Everyone will be beguiled by my pinky scar; it will be my Padma Lakshmi factor. I’ve clumsily forgotten to preheat the oven. Is that not adorably human of me?
Now is the time to look out my window at my breathtaking view of something breathtaking. The sun warms my perfectly freckled nose and you, dear reader, zoom in on my profile picture before getting frustrated and skipping the text to look at the glossy, professional pictures of food you can’t cook. The fog is lovely this time of morning.
While my quiche is baking, I take the time to arrange professionally arranged flowers. They remind me of my childhood because they’re perfect and expensive. My husband appreciates my efforts to mention him at least twice in each blog post. It’s the least I can do for reasons that make my marriage idyllic. The bruises on my arms are burn marks from the oven. Speaking of which, when I open the door of my antique wood-burning oven, it fills the house with aromas most people don’t associate with their sub-par cooking.
Everything I make is deceptively easy, but my use of inaccessible ingredients and fancy lighting allow my cooking to appear not at all replicable. I learned this technique in finishing school. I’m old-fashioned that way. Now, unfortunately, I must leave you. It’s time to plan the menu for the fifty guest sit-down dinner I’m hosting this weekend.
Quiche with Baby Laughter
(Serves 1 depending on how sad you are)
For the crust,
2 cups 00 flour
2 cups plain flour
1 tsp. pink Himalayan salt
1 & ¼ cups morning dew
1 cup cubed unsalted grass-fed butter
For the filling,
2 large organic baby laughs
8 free-range egg yolks
1 free-range egg white
½ cup Gruyère cheese, grated
Extra Virgin Olive Oil to drizzle
Salt and pepper to taste
In a large bowl, add the dry ingredients for the crust and slowly incorporate the wet by gently blowing the mixture. This is much preferred to kneading, as that might destroy the delicate form of my fingers. After chilling the dough, I line an antique duck press with it as the finished product has an appeal and charm you simply cannot achieve with a normal pie dish. Then, I pour the egg mixture into the press, but not before making sure the baby laughs are properly incorporated. Scatter the endive leaves in a way that makes them artistically askew and top them with the cheese. I urge you not to over-season as the baby laughs develop a strong taste in the oven, which should be preheated and appropriately hot. Bake until you are no longer patient.
Bebe von Fleur