I NEVER want to hear the F word again.
I mean EVER.
You know the one I’m talking about.
It’s shameless. It’s evil. And it’s disgusting.
I’m talking, of course, about Flan.
*shiver* Even typing it gives me the willies.
I never knew I felt this strongly about it until the other night.
I received a text from 16 year old Amp earlier in the afternoon:
“Mom. We are supposed to cook a Spanish dish to bring in to class tomorrow. I am making caramel custard. Depending on when you get home I may need your assistance in acquiring the following: sugar. A pan in which to melt the sugar into caramel. Milk. Vanilla extract. A cupcake pan. Eggs. A roasting pan. Thank you for your help.”
Sounds easy enough. I had all the materials and ingredients. I knew caramel custard was a fancy name for *swallow* flan. I’d never made it before, seeing as I don’t really like it, but I was willing to help him out.
A little later I received another text from him. This one stated he wouldn’t be home from his scholar bowl match until 8:30 that evening. Ugh. I wasn’t willing to stay up all night making this Mexican dessert so I asked him if it was okay for me to start without him.
I dug up an easy recipe off the internet and got to work.
Three hours, 4 dirty pots, and 5 pounds of sugar later, Amp walks through the door.
“How’s it goin’?”, he has the nerve to ask.
I looked at him with smudgy eyes, frazzled hair, and sticky fingers.
“Great!” I reply, dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve been on the FIRST STEP for THREE HOURS, and for the life of me I canNOT get the sugar to melt and then turn to caramel.”
I was on a rampage now.
“I searched over and over again for tips and tricks on how to melt sugar. And EVERY. ONE. FAILS. I am done trying. I suggest you take pictures of ALL the dirty pans, ALL the sugar in the trash, and the burnt sugar that will forever be stuck to the stove. and turn THAT in.”
He shrugged, with his calm, laid back, easy going personality, and began snapping pictures. Then he grabbed something to eat and headed off to his room.
Taking a cue from his carefree attitude, I dumped the rest of the sugar in the trash, threw the pots in the sink, grabbed my ice cream and plopped on the couch.
I have since calmed down and regained my composure, but I swear…
if I ever, EVER hear that F word again….
I may just…