Hahahaha. Fooled you. While this post isn’t about having intercourse on the eve of one’s nuptuals (let’s face it, most of us were or will be too drunk to figure out how to shed a wedding dress quickly enough to maintain our own attention span, let alone our groom’s, who has likely polished off a fifth of rum under the mistaken idea that his wedding was ACTUALLY a great opportunity to catch up with old college buddies whom he hasn’t seen for years than to spend time with his new wife, who he probably sees every day and frankly he’s tired of her incessant squawking…) No, this post is not about consummating a relationship. It’s about consommating a relationship. And I have. And it was goooooooood.
Consomme is a very elaborately clarified broth or stock that has gone from being cloudy and delicious to being completely clear and the same amount of delicious except for now your kitchen looks like it was transported directly out of the aftermath of hurricane Katrina and installed in your home as a living museum to those who might forget that terrible day. Kind of like the Alamo which I avoid like it’s genital herpes.
It seems that I don’t like to be reminded of other peoples’ suffering, given that I probably can’t do much about it unless I can somehow feed the soldiers of the Alamo for just 33 cents a day so they don’t have to live in a shack with Sally Struthers. Which is why I have had my picture taken in front of the Alamo, but have never laid eyes on it. I’ve almost gotten into traffic accidents avoiding looking at the Alamo, but I like to think it’ll be worth it when I can say I lived in Texas for 2 full years and never once saw that stupid monument that they textually rape me with on a daily basis–Alamo liquors, Alamodome, Alamo Heights, Alamotorhome…k, that last one was made up, but it’s probably out there somewhere. Probably in Alabama.
Anyway, the consomme. It was really a lot of work. First, I had to create a chicken stock, which I did by browning chicken parts in the oven, then simmering them with a mirepoix and a sachet d’epice (google it–I have to pretty much every time I make it, so you should too) until it was ready to become gelatinous. Then, I had to cool it and take off the fat iceberg (I just coined the term, you like?), and then bring it back to 100 degrees F. Then, and this is really just repulsive, I had to stir in a substance not unlike the dry land version of chum. It was pulverized raw chicken, egg whites, more friggin’ mirepoix, tomato puree, salt, and a touch of white wine and let it simmer at 140 degrees F until the crap I had just stirred in formed what is called a “raft” and floated to the surface looking for all the world like Swamp Thing if Swamp Thing had also had a serious case of cystic acne. Poor dear.
Then I had to burn the fuck out of an onion ON PURPOSE and stick it under the raft for “color.” Quaint.
Eventually, I got to pull out all of the stock from underneath the raft (this cost me three gold coins) and admire its clarity.
All of the particulate matter had gotten stuck to the coagulated, denatured protein in the raft. It’s pretty interesting science, and effective, no-doubt, but good GOD. I ask you! I made little custard royale rounds to float on top, which then deposited a couple of little tiny chunky shards into the bottom, mocking me and pissing me off.
I made up some egg roll cigars so that Chris wouldn’t feel as jilted by the fact that he was getting broth for supper like Oliver Twist (May I have some moooore, Miss?). The consomme was like very good stock. But who drinks very good stock? You MAKE THINGS with very good stock. It’s what we commonly refer to as “an ingredient.” So, as the heathen that I am, rather than making a gorgeous consomme-glace and drizzling it on my naked breasts as I rightly should have, I made hot and sour soup and sesame rice cakes for dinner the next night, using the consomme as the broth. And that soup? DAMNED GOOD.