creme brulee

I made crème brulee this week. As I am sitting here at almost two in the morning, I am running out of things to talk about in this entry that I figure that probably the most exciting thing I may share to my imaginary audience is that I made crème brulee this week.

I asked my chief friend that I am not keen to learn how to make deserts to make the ladies wow, but I want something that will make them swoon. Crème brulee it was. I actually tried it with someone over dinner, and the effects was somewhat disappointing; I did get the praises which was sufficient to appease the male ego, but there weren’t fireworks and magic in the air you find in old black and white romantic movies. Maybe I was expecting too much, it was after all cream and eggs, not really aphrodisiac.

Having high expectations appear to the theme of my life. Finding contentment for me is like chasing a dangling carrot; it appears futile yet it drives me towards achieving an unachievable perfection. The tension in my neck is a good indication that I’m not being very smart about setting the goals in my life, yet I do not know any other way to lead my life. They call me a type A stress freak and I am pretty happy with the label as long as the tension headaches didn’t come with it. I constantly tell myself to set lower levels of expectation and be surprised by life’s little surprises, but the deliberate effort to set lower expectation levels in itself, defeats the entire purpose. It is like telling myself to think about not thinking in order to give my mind a rest. This paradoxical notion is as merciful as tying a ribbon on a dog’s tail.

It is late now, think I should hit the pillow. Maybe next week I’ll stress about making a chocolate soufflé. If life is like desert, I am a vanilla panacotta; really I have no idea what that metaphor means, but it makes me sound philosophically smart with a touch of Italian flair. Think I can be happy with that.