Who will say that custard is not wondrous, mythical, beguiling?
Custard is so magical. Eggs, which can turn their self-important little backs on us by becoming hard and bouncy, or trick us into thinking all they’re good for is an over easy fried blob, are really both the architects and the flying buttresses of the baking/cooking world. Miss an instant in whisking they curdle, treat them with love and affection they give back triple-fold. Lofty meringues, tart yet creamy hollandaise, unctuous buttercream, the simple steaming white orb in an egg cup waiting patiently for your spoon, silk velvet elusive pot de creme, crunchy sable, the impossible fantastic fish quenelle, thick luxurious frozen vanilla flecked custard, the finicky creme brulee, an angel food cake elegant and tall, the challenge of one small raw quail egg atop a mound of red and bloody beef. The egg is the perfect shape the single spoon quennelle emulates and the shells are painstakingly hollowed out by many cultures to produce decorated masterpieces, both delicate and bold. The egg nev
