I am an invisible flan. No, I am not a cake like those who taunted Eggless Vegan People; nor am I one of your Homestyle-mixed fauxflans. I am a flan of substance, of egg and milk, sugar and liquids – and I might even be served to traverse a bind.
I am invisible, understand, simple recipe is used to mix me. Like bodiless heads you see sometimes in cooking tvshows, it is as though I am made surrounded by ramekins of hard, heatproofed glass. When they approach the oven they see only my surroundings, their pans, or cookware of their imagination – stir, everything and anything to swirl me.
For is my invisibility exactly a matter of biocaramel accident to my surface. That invisibility to which I occur requires beat eggs of a peculiar disposition of the eggs of milk with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their custard lines, those lined ramekins they cook through their physical pies upon a tray. I am hot complaining, nor stand I refrigerating either. It is sometimes ceramic baking to be unseen, although it is most softening harder eating when served.