At lunch, I’ve been reading the 2002 Julie/Julia blog in chronological order. She can write.
We’re not seeing the energy and excitement of early blogging these days, and it behooves us to understand why. Is the change an illusion, an artifact? Have we simply become accustomed to weblogs, so what once seemed exceptional is now par for the course? Are we looking in the wrong place?
I stir in beaten egg yolks and tablespoon after tablespoon of butter – as much butter as the sauce can hold. I beat it constantly over a very low heat, and it thickens. I beat in the tomato paste. It’s a gorgeous warm red color, and I had never much like tarragon before, but this tastes lovely, fresh and rich at the same time.
Fuck! The pastry cups!
I manage to yank them out of the oven just before they go over to burned. Now all I have to do is reheat the eggs and the mushroom sauce, and we’re done.
“Eric, have I mentioned how much I really, really appreciate that you haven’t divorced me yet?”
“Where’s the corkscrew? Let’s get this damned wine open.”
The time is eleven forty-five. I heat everything without incident. I put two pastry cups on two plates. I spoon some mushroom sauce into each cup, then an egg, then a large spoonful of sauce Choron. They are things to behold – gaspingly lovely, very impressive. It is midnight on the dot, and my husband and I are eating Oeufs en Croustades a la Bernaise.
They are as lovely to eat as to look at. The runny yolks break open and meld with the sauce and the mushrooms, but the flavor of each element remains distinct. The pastry cup, though not flaky like it should be, is buttery and crisp and holds the whole thing together.
Two, as it turns out, is entirely too much.
By one am we are in bed, French eggs churning in our bellies, due to awake in five and a half hours. I’m fucking exhausted. But happy. Those eggs are what the Julie/Julia Project is all about. I daresay they’re the one thing in my life lately that has worked out just perfectly.