FRIDAY FOOD THING
I like custard. Whenever I go to a restaurant I look for it in the dessert section of the menu. If it’s not there, oh well. But if it IS, I order TWO of them. I like the kind of custard that’s topped with gooey caramel, the kind that drips down and pools up at the base of the custard pile. The kind dreams are made of. The kind that is called FLAN.
I know that because I discovered it last week during a trip to the grocery store. GOYA makes a fairly decent one: “CUSTARD SPANISH-STYLE FLAN”. It comes in a small box just like Jell-O, and — considering how easy it is and how really far away 5-Star restaurant-class custard awaits — boy is it GOOD!
Back in the early 70s my wife was a custard perfectionist. Real custard sitting in water baths and baked in ovens. Oh, so temperamental: “Tim, DON’T SLAM THE DOOR — now look what you’ve done!”
Custard stuff that looks this good should be illegal.