LOUIS MISSOURI — When at the cusp of making big, life-altering decisions, some people bake or cook, while others eat.
For many years, I used to be part of Team Eat but today, the gravity of the decision I am about to make egged me to switch sides, tie the apron behind my back, and get my hands dirty.
It’s mid-afternoon but I flick on the lights to our kitchen, which has become my domain ever since I moved here to the US around a year ago.
This, in itself, has been a life-altering move – not moving to the US but preparing meals from scratch. Pre-US, this was unthinkable to myself, my friends, and my family. While I was preparing for this big move two years ago, I saw myself spending the rest of my days in this land of milk and money consumed with crunching numbers – not crushing garlic.
But here I am, emptying the contents of the stiff, brown grocery bag on the marble kitchen counter: a tray of eggs, a can of condensed milk and evaporated milk, and a small bottle of organic vanilla extract.
I pulled out one of the chairs from our dining room table so I could use it as a makeshift step ladder to reach the upper cabinets where we store a few tools I needed for this experiment: a traditional bamboo steamer, a huge pot, and an unassuming steel oblong mold that gleamed buttery yellow from the combination of a late afternoon sunshine and the soft glow of the kitchen light.
For the record, I do not do desserts. Despite having a sweet tooth, and being guilty of binging on shows like the Great British Bake-off and Baking Master, sweets, in general had never been my domain, never been in my portfolio. I feared and respected the art so much that I decided it was best left in the hands of its spiritual masters–those who are effortlessly capable of transforming any combination of sugar, butter, milk, eggs, and other ingredients into something that uplifted the soul, and made one hear an angelic chorus.
Clearly, I am not, and never have been, a priestess of sweets. As I measured the milks, and carefully separated the egg yolks from the whites, I could feel this small band of ingredients staring back at me, taunting me as they reminded me of the ghosts of leche flans past.
I was 11 when I decided I was better off consuming, rather than creating desserts. Our classroom was the bustling Home Economics kitchen, and our task for the period was to make leche flan, a classic Filipino dessert originally brought to the archipelago by Spain and Mexico during the colonial period.
In the olden times, as it is today, it was simply as ‘flan’ (from the Latin, ‘fladon’ meaning ‘flat cake’) then leche de flan in the Philippines, before it became known to us simply as leche flan.
Prior to its Hispanization, the Spanish flan traces its origins to ancient Rome where it was both a sweet and savory treat, served at any meal of the day, and not limited as a dessert. As the Roman Empire crumbled, flan reigned eternal across Europe where it took on more versions than there are states in the European Union.
While a number of sources frequently credit Spain with the flan’s subsequent sweet pivot through the addition of caramelized sugar, it is unclear whether the French derived their recipe for creme caramel, a similar dessert, via Spain.
It is possible that both variations of the original Roman flan developed in parallel, as both countries had been under the Roman Empire’s dominion when flan initially gained widespread popularity in the ancient world.
Flan was one of the many treasures Spain would bring to the colonies where, as the story usually goes, the dessert would undergo a wave of tweaks and transformations as it traveled, creating regional variations along the way that each locality would claim is the best version of the dessert.
Today, the Spanish flan is still not strictly limited to post-meal postre. It can still be served whether at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and savory versions still exist, especially in the Basque region where some people insist on calling it a tart.
In the Philippines, as it is in France, leche flan and its close cousin, creme caramel, are solely reserved for dessert, a fittingly rich and luxurious punctuation to a sumptuous meal.
And while flan, creme caramel, and leche flan look like identical triplets, they are fundamentally different.
Flan, in its strictest sense, only uses whole eggs, and often doesn’t include sweetened or condensed milk. Its savory version can also be enveloped in a pastry-like crust.
However, the Mexican version of the dish would lock in its reputation as a dessert, as the Mexicans served its caramel iteration, as well as experimented with the addition of other flavors such as chocolate and coffee.
Creme caramel, on the other hand, uses a combination of whole eggs and egg yolks, is flavored with vanilla, and is prepared through steaming, or a water bath using a ramekin, a small cylindrical white basin usually made of ceramic or porcelain.
Compared to its culinary ancestors, leche flan only makes use of egg yolks, and has, for many years, solely been served as a dessert. Among the three, it has the richest, most pronounced flavor. In terms of preparation and intention, it is closer to creme caramel, and flan’s Mexican version.
Like the Mexican flan, leche flan keeps to the sweet side. Like both creme caramel and Mexican flan, the preparation involves steaming; but while the French use a ceramic vessel, we, like our Mexican cousins, use a steel llanera or flanera.
Leche flan looked deceptively simple on paper, and on the plate. The recipe said it only takes five ingredients, and 12 steps – the 12th being to share and enjoy your creation, assuming it looked exactly like the picture of success our teacher showed us.
We gathered around her as she carefully freed the dessert from its oblong llanera to reveal a smooth, silky custard creation, the color of golden afternoon sunlight. Yet, it was the surface of the leche flan that seemed to be the showstopper: A thin, translucent glossy sheen of caramel, the color of deep amber.
Our teacher carefully sliced the leche flan, and handed to us small cubes of the dessert served on delicate white saucers.
“Now taste it, and notice how it feels in your mouth,” she said, as if leading a body scan meditation.
And truly, it was a spiritual experience. My tastebuds tingled as the dense, velvety custard landed on my tongue where it melted, leaving a lingering richness that made me yearn for another spoonful. The caramel sauce cascaded over my tongue in an immediate burst of sugary warmth.
Unlike other desserts, leche flan did not clamor for attention. It wasn’t decked with a tower of fruits or icing, and it didn’t have any of those intricately-latticed finishes. It was at its best when it was unadorned. Call it ‘quiet luxury’ on a plate.
“Alright, time to get to work,” our teacher said, as she clapped her hands, bringing me back from an altered state of consciousness.
After mixing all the ingredients together, I carefully placed my llanera at the center of a tray that was an inch-full of hot water, then popped it into the oven to bake for about an hour.
The result was a disaster. Instead of a gleaming amber surface, my leche flan sported a dark, cracked volcanic crust. The rest of it was peppered with craters, big and small, which, from afar, made it look like Swiss cheese.
Since then, I swore never to touch a llanera again – until a quarter of a century later, and 13 time zones away.
So now, I carefully extract the egg yolks through a trick I’ve learned, using an empty mineral water bottle to suck them away from the whites as precisely as possible. Into the clear mixing bowl they go where I carefully – not vigorously – beat them, as I gradually pour the condensed milk, followed by the evaporated milk, and the vanilla extract into the mixture, melding the ingredients until they marry, and form an unrecognizable new whole.
The door knob twists as my husband unlocks it from the other side. I jolt, spilling some sugar on the counter, fine crystal shards glittering like broken glass. As I lift the bag of sugar from the table in an attempt to begin cleaning the mess, more sugar spills from the opening at the corner of the pack.
I shake my head, realizing I had made a bigger mess. It’s funny how mundane, ordinary things give us a glimpse of how life is unfolding. I leave the sugar for now, as I revisit the next steps on the screen of my phone.
Now here is the challenging part: creating the caramel syrup, and making sure it doesn’t burn. Caramel is notorious for burning quickly. Heat is good. It’s a fundamental ingredient for creation but too much of it can burn, and leave a scar.
“Don’t take it too seriously,” my husband kisses my head as he pours a glass of water for himself in the kitchen.
“I know,” I sighed in reply, my eyes on the granulated sugar that slowly started to liquify, and turn from snowy white to amber, as I hovered the llanera over the heat.
My husband knows how much, and how long I’ve struggled with this decision. He pours me a shot of my favorite green grape soju. Soju always makes things seem a lot less complicated than they really are.
“Don’t worry about it. Don’t force it. Just let it be, and it will all fall into place,” he assured me before leaving to rest on our couch, a copy of Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow in one hand.
For years, the pieces have not fallen into place, and sometimes, the gravity of the decision makes me feel as if I could barely breathe. The stakes are high. It’s not as simple as trying again after waiting for close to an hour, only to find out that the outcome was a lot less than what’s expected.
Sometimes, I wish things were simple and uncomplicated again – when the only thing to worry about were exams, homework, and graduation. When adulting wasn’t a thing. When we didn’t have to deal with office politics, and toxic workplace cultures that often left a bitter taste in the mouth. Sometimes, it went as far as ruining lives and questioning one’s life choices.
In grade school, we ask many crazy questions, and when there are no answers, we make them up, in an effort to make things make sense. Those were the good old days.
I spread the caramel into the llanera, and then slowly added the mixture of egg yolks, milks, and vanilla. I tore a sheet of aluminum foil from its dispenser to cover the container before carefully placing it inside the steamer. Now, it’s time to let go, and allow the steam to do the rest.
“Alexa, set the timer to 35 minutes,” I called out from the counter. The timer starts ticking.
The kitchen is a mess. It looked as if a child was left to bake unsupervised. Normally, I would ask my husband to clean as I go, but today, I decided to clean up my own mess.
I brew a cup of coffee, and wait for it to steep before pressing down the plunger. I poured the coffee into two cups, one for myself, and one for my husband.
The alarm rang. I remove the llanera from the steam, and allow it to cool on the counter before transferring it to the fridge.
After dinner, it was the moment of truth. With bated breath, I carefully removed the llanera to reveal a flawless custard creation, its sides gold as a late afternoon sunshine, its surface coated with the glossy layer of deep amber. Caramel pooled by its sides.
I dug into the leche flan, and scooped up a bite. It was rich and velvety, with the lingering kiss of caramel and vanilla that made me crave for more.
Did I just make leche flan? I mean, did I just make edible leche flan that didn’t look like it was spawned from some cataclysmic event?
My eyes are moist. My heart swells. I had just ventured into tierra incognito, and emerged, mostly unscathed.
I am still clueless, still figuring things out. I haven’t made anything that resembles a decision yet. But then perhaps, I don’t have to know all the answers, I don’t have to figure it out right now. Just as my husband assured me, it is enough for me to do the best that I can, and then let the steam do the rest.
For now, I am enough, and I am where I am supposed to be. The right answers will come in the fullness of time.
I need to trust that all things will work out just as they are meant to be. There is no failure so massive, so big that we could never rise from it, and try again. Park it for a few years, maybe? But always, always keep trying again.
Honestly, trusting the process is more difficult than perfectly extracting the yolks from the whites. Believing that somehow, things will turn out right at the other end is a tall, tough order.
And yet, here I am with this velvety, creamy leche flan, a husband who is celebrating my renewed take on dessert, and a feeling that ultimately, the universe will correct itself, justice will be served (hopefully with some whipped cream), and that all will be well.
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