Cloud Burst
It is a glorious day. Below. Here though, the low clouds top the highest peak. A milky white froth that would look good on any cappuccino. Even so, the sun is blazing a morning salute. A glare that will eventually burn this nebulous cover. I am high. A path a kilometre higher than the sun warmed sandy beaches. So high I can touch the clouds. Its moisture speckles my hands, my clothes, my dog. The air, a spring-pure sweetness, roses my cheeks and tears my eyes. The chiaroscuro of the ragged, cragged, rough cliff faces inspire a certain awe as if nature had deliberately designed it that way. No noise. Save for the wind. No noise. Save also for the nestling eagles arguing around their high nooks. High. And. I. Am. Inspired.
I return home. To my kitchen. A frothy cappuccino poured into a steaming mug of coffee, one that I can wrap my chilled fingers around, would do me well. But I don´t take milk in my coffee. Even so, the caffeinated drink still heats my hands and revives me. A sip and then I put it down, reluctant to let go.
Icing sugar, the outer design of the paper bag giving its age away, comes down from a shelf in the kitchen. The slightest grip puffs powder through the creased lips. I open up the folded, pleated mouth and flurry out the contents into a box. Scrunching the opening back up, the once neat factory folds long disappeared, and sliding the bag into a place to be forgotten until next time. I move the box to another part of the worksurface. A dust cloud leaves ghostly traces where it has been.
Near the hob, the hub of oncoming activity, I open a cupboard door and reach up for the bag of cornflour. The mere mention makes me shudder. I measure an equal amount of the flour into the box of sugar. The dry, calcific squeak is barely tempered when I mix it into the icing sugar. I place a lid on the top of the box and shake it. The bag, a tram line type seal that once opened is nigh on impossible to close, I struggle with for a minute or so before placing it to one side. It will be needed again soon.
A tin, greyer than the darker mountain clouds. The metallic flecks of non-stick paintwork glinting in the sunlight. But what I am making is going to stick. I ease it out from the bottom of a pile of baking sheets, cake tins and roasters that stand precariously by the back wall of the kitchen awaiting the merest breeze or scuff to tumble loudly to the floor. A tin timpani.
I pull out a sheet of parchment. Square cut. Silicon. Oven proof. The utensil drawer hides the scissors. Orange handled they may be, but in the overcrowded space I cannot find them. A minute passes. I edge closer to a temptation: the pull-out-the-drawer-and-scatter-it-all-on-the-floor temptation. But then I find them. Eventually. I hold the paper and cut at each corner, towards the centre, guessing the size of the tin´s base. It is not important to be accurate. It is important not to be slapdash. Haphazard. Sloppy. The sheet now has a square base to match the tin´s, with flopping rhomboid wings.
Sunflower. The bottle of neutral oil. A drizzle, the smallest amount poured in the tin. My pastry brush, hardened by time, softened by boiled water, pushes the oil into the corners. Up the sides. All over. Carefully, I ease the square cut part of parchment into the base of the greased tin. The wings are pressed to the sides, edges flipped over. I repeat the oiling process on the sheet. Up. Down. Across. Then, moving so swiftly it could defy the eyes, I scoop some cornflour sugar mix with a metal spoon out of the box and toss it onto the paper. I lift the tin, shaking the flour from one end to another, from one side to the next, careful not to allow it near me. My flesh is already goosebumped at the thought. I tap what has not held against the oiled sheet out and back into the box. The tin is dusted. It is ready.
My pan, large, aluminium, generous in proportions is sat firmly on a hob ring. Centred. Aligned. I lift a thermometer hanging on a hook in front of me. A sugar thermometer. The metal frame has a clasp to clip it to the pan´s side. Its red line ready to mark the progress of the heated ingredients. I reach up for the granulated sugar. More crystalline and coarser than the dusty icing sugar. More effective for sugar solutions. I measure an amount that would worry most dental practitioners. It sparkles as it tumbles into the pan. A large white pile that brightens the cold grey steel.
A boiled kettle can only stay warm for so long. I measure the contents into a jug, it is still hot enough for my needs. I quickly stick my forefinger into the bottle of oil Dutch dyke style, the fronds inside the neck tickling my fingertip. I wipe a measuring spoon around the inside with the dominant digit. This will prevent it from sticking. It? Glucose syrup it. That is what. That “it” is the most important ingredient of all. It will keep the sugar pliant. Prevent brittleness. I hold the spoon in my left hand and squeeze the tube of syrup with all my might. Like glue, it moves at a glacial pace. My grip holds long enough to fill the spoon, then overfill it to the point of spilling it. I pour the hot water over the spoon, over the pan, the glucose melting down, releasing itself from the spoon, thanks to the oil and merging with the sugar below.
My zester, that flurrisome file, that implement flaying fruit skin like martyr´s flesh, busily showers orange onto a small board. It will be used presently but I must juice the denuded citrus. A jug. A reamer. Four orange halves. Light work. Light, but sticky work. I open the sweet cupboard door. Yes, I have sweet-savoury arrangements. The sweet cupboard hides a thin packet. So thin, I keep it close to the door to find more easily. Gelatine. Delicate transparent leaves that need to be soaked for a short time. I find a small gratin dish, white, bland, and evenly space several sheets in it. The jug of juice is rid of its contents, a splash of water adding to the measurement that is needed for my recipe.
I do weights at the gym. Did I mention that? Under a shelf I find a Harley Davidson of a machine. My food processor. A large, weighty but satisfyingly ergonomic engine. Its enamelled paintwork a light sage, a colour that matched perfectly with my last kitchen. I do not really care that much, but it is important. Right? I tuck my hand under the mechanical arm. With a couple of preparational puffs, I heave the monster up and onto the counter nearest some electrical points. I pivot the green arm with the flick of a catch, twist on the bulbous head of a whisk attachment and lock a chrome bowl to the base, lowering the whisk´s head into its centre. And prepare myself.
In the fridge door there is a bottle of pasteurised egg whites. Long ago, I gave up the idea of separating eggs by the dozen. No more the yolks. No more the shells. No. more. I pour an albuminous measurement into the bowl attached to the machine and allow myself a pause.
A whoosh-hiss of a match, the cough of the hob under the sugar pan and it is time to go.
Patience and timing work well as a team. I am not part of that team. However, there is a fascination that comes from watching a thermometer rise to the different levels of heat. Up. Thread. Up. Soft ball. Up. Hard ball. Up further, soft and hard crack. It is something enjoyably suspenseful. I am hypnotised by the change in the shape of the bubbles as they reach the different boiling stages. It´s true. Watch it yourself.
The sugar becomes more opaque as it starts to disappear into the slowly swirling water. I help the crystals break down by agitating them with the handle of a wooden spoon. Small swirls. Nothing more. The sugar can burn on the sides if it is stirred too much spoiling the flavour. And I am wary. I watch the solution become clear before turning my attention to the egg whites and the gelatine sheets. A prod here and there to make sure the leaves have become jelly.
I see the red line hitting that high. Reaching that point. That point where the boiling sugar, originally warming at a painstakingly slow pace, rapidly surges, forcing me into action like a juggler suddenly being thrown an extra ball. I flip the switch to start the whisking of the whites. They need just enough time to over whisk. To become very stiff peaks. I leave the machine and count down, or up, the thermometer´s marks. The background whirring forcing me to concentrate. I grab a medium whisk. My most used. My most beloved. The reading reaches the right temperature. I turn off the hob, unclip the thermometer and put it in hot water. Then lift the gratin dish with the gelatined orange. Quickly plunging the contents into the pan. Whisking furiously. Liquid frothing angrily. Changing colour. The shock coolness of the gratin dish´s contents settle the bubbling cauldron of sugar. The angry noises replaced by the all-enveloping aroma of oranges and candy.
The rhythmic pace of the food processor´s motor creates a beat for the next part. While the whites stiffen even more than should be allowed, the bulbous whisk a blur in the bowl, I slowly drizzle the orange perfumed sugar from the pan over the egg. Slowly. Very slowly. Too quickly and it will not work. The volume increases as the sugar is added. Puffing up. Clouds before a summer storm. As the last drops of scented sweetness drip into the bowl the whites have transformed from airy froth to glossy mousse. I pick up the small board with the zest. Flicking the switch, I stop the process for the merest moment to scatter the oily orange into the bowl. Then, flicking the switch back, to resume the beating with vigour. Sound is a giveaway. Wetness a quicker, higher pitched pulse. I am waiting for that deeper base sound. A resonant, slow, mud-bubbling sound. One that tells me the gelatine, the eggs and the scented liquid have truly combined. That the sugar has cooled. I place my hands around the base of the bowl to double check. Just warm. Just right.
I drag the paper lined tin along the worksurface to a place where I can pour easily. Unlocking the bowl from the base of the machine, I lift it with my left hand. My right hand holds a spatula. The pouring begins. It falls. It spreads. Like lava, though lava flows do not look as pretty. The spatula scrapes the most reluctant elements. Not that they are needed as the tin is near to overflowing.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I lift the tin up then slam it down. I am not angry. Not at all. I must rid the mousse of air. It must be smooth. Dense.
Bang.
Bang.
The sound is enough to make the dog run to a safe place under the covers of the bed. I will deal with him later. I reach up to a jar of cocktail sticks on a nearby shelf, selecting out just one. One tiny wooden spear. The spiked end will pierce any remaining bubbles that have risen to the surface from the clattering, ear-shattering slamming. I pick up the tin and walk to the far end of the building. The coolest, darkest part. It will stay there for a couple of hours while I clear up. I will not lick the spoon. I will not lick the spoon.
I still have a few remnants of sugary delight stuck to my whiskers as I bring the tin back to the kitchen. I lay out a silicon mat with designs and measurements that will help me cut and slice with accuracy. I place the tin on top. A dungeon master shows his victim the tools of his trade before he begins work. For me, the torture begins. Cornflour. But we must all go through hell to taste a bit of heaven. Cornflour. Just the mention of it and I will sing like a canary. Cornflour. I pull the paper wings of the parchment, easing out my treat from the tin. I gently ease the sides down. Peeling carefully. The sugary delight reluctant to let go. It is as sticky as putty. I unclip the box with the cornflour sugar mix and sprinkle some over the surface and down the recently exposed sides. My palm spreads it around. Rubs it all over. Flipping over the orange sugar mousse, I gently peel the remaining parchment away and begin again with the powdery solution. Inside I am singing Mozart´s Der Hoelle Rache Aria. Pitch perfect. I turn and twist the flavoured foam until it is flush with the marked mat.
I retrieve my pastry knife. It is the size of a scimitar, large, serrated curves along the blade. I hold it high, aiming it at the centre of my square sweet, measuring it against the mat´s own ruled marks. The knife cuts down and through. Sticky. Each half reluctant to separate. I slice again. Twice on one half. Each cut more difficult than the last so adhesive it has become. I shake more cornflour over the width of each long piece. And, wiping the knife, begin again with the other half. The more cornflour, the less stickiness. In theory. But the theory is holding. I shake more. Then position the long slices width ways. I decide to eye-ball the size of each piece I will cut. My aim is to get six cubes from each length. Thirty-six squares in all. Thirty-two to be bagged. Each one to be tossed in the sugar flour powder. Each one shaken in the palm of my hand, my fingers a wide clasp to roll the square around, to rid it of any excess. I place them side-by-side, evenly spaced, on a wire rack to leave overnight. To dry. I carry the rack to that dark, cool room at the other end of the house. My jaw aches from grimacing. But. It. Is. Done.
It is another glorious day. And although the low clouds still top the highest peak of the mountain. And that glare will burn that nebulous cover again. The morning sun dazzles the kitchen. I have cleaned, walked, sipped and slurped my way through the breakfast routine. The dog is happily slumbering after his excesses. No noises this time. So, I am left to wander through the house, to the rack holding the orange sugar-sweet cubes. I take them back to the kitchen. I gently feel the sweets to make sure the powder has helped dry them out enough to bag. A brittle skin. A crustiness has formed overnight. This is good. Firm edges, spongey centres. Four bags. Four strands of chequered ribbon. Four gifts. With four corner pieces left over.
I take a corner piece to test. I have to. No, really. I pause. My mousse, this marshmallow, so perfumed on the palate, so orange, so creamy, melts on my tongue. It is like eating those mountain clouds.
How can you bag a piece of heaven?