It really does take a crack on the head or a knife in the gut to make me pay attention.
So, I made this terrible quiche. It wasn't the first gluten-free baking that I've done, but it does symbolize all of the kitchen disasters that I've been having lately.
Fear has crept into my cooking. Or is it despair? A who-cares-what-I-make attitude that sums up the spoiled, gluten-free brat I've become? Or fear + despair - attention = crap food?
That freakin' quiche up there. All of it's creamy custard made out of backyard eggs and milk fresh from the cow (not mine, someone else's) was absorbed by the stupid, yet tasty gluten-free crust. Oh, but wait. First this happened.
Every recipe I scanned for advice said to use a tart pan. ALL OF THEM. I'd never used a tart pan before when making quiche, but I had one and figured I'd give it a whirl. Wrong. The hateful gluten-free crust was too soft, and you can see (kind of — I quicky grabbed my phone, and I think it was steamed up from the ridiculously hot temperatures in the kitchen that other day) what happens when quiche liquid melts big, gaping holes in a crust in a tart pan with a removable bottom.
So much for quiche lorraine. The ingredients were now gone, gone to the trash when I tossed the whole thing away. I could have scraped the bacon and onions out, maybe added a little cheese and a new custard mixture, right? No. Not at all. The crust somehow dissolved during the time that I took my picture, called in the dogs to clean the floor, and snatched up the tart-pan-with-the-removable-bottom. Besides, who wanted quiche lorraine anyway?
(more after the jump)