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The Flan Case
180g plain flour, sifted
90g chilled butter
60g icing sugar, sifted
1tsp finely grated lemon zest
1 egg yolk, lightly beaten
1-2tbsp iced water

Orange Mousseline Buttercream Filling
75g granulated sugar
3 egg yolks
180g unsalted butter, softened
1tsp vanilla extract
1tbsp orange juice
1 orange
3 tbsp icing sugar, sifted

Glazed Orange filling
375g granulated sugar
125mL fresh orange juice, strained
125mL fresh lemon juice, strained
3 unwaxed, small, thin-skinned oranges
1 tbsp dark rum

1. For the Pastry, sift the flour once more, into a large mixing bowl or on to a clean work surface. Make a well in the centre.
She sighed softly as she finally settled on a recipe from the cake cookbook, from a glance she seemed to have all the ingredients and the flavours seemed to be a good balance. A luxurious orange flan with buttercream and alcohol soaked syrupy fruit. She’d contemplated something chocolaty, chocolate being the supposed aphrodisiac, but it seemed more of a cake you ate to comfort you at the end of a failed relationship rather than as something to subtly seduce someone with. So rummaging through the kitchen cupboards and settling on the largest mixing bowl she could find she sifted the flour twice into it. She hoped tonight would be successful, she hadn't had the nerve to ask him here alone so she had shifted together some of her other friends to join them. Her eyes glanced back at the book once more, 'Make a well', well I suppose I just stick my finger in the middle and try and sort of make something that looks like a hole in the flour, laughing a little to herself that it was missing a bucket and a kitten and a rope…

2. Cut the chilled butter into pieces and add to the flour. Lightly rub the butter and the flour together with the tips of your fingers, lifting the mixture and letting it fall back down, until you have a fine, crumb-like mixture.
Leaving her slightly incomplete well alone for a moment, and not realising the significance or purpose of its construction, she thought about the complex of chilled butter. She really should keep the butter in the fridge more often, but she abhorred butter, particularly in its state as a solid lump of lard, and she would only use the tiniest sliver of soft butter on toast in the morning and it was still out of the fridge from breakfast, as was the raspberry jam. She thought about this for a moment, she wanted to make a good impression didn’t she, so it probably wouldn’t do to adlib with the recipe at such an early stage. So tucking the butter into the freezer for a few minutes she finished washing up the breakfast dishes, put away the jam jar and retrieved the butter from the freezer, looking a little more chilled if somewhat confused. So then finely chopping it into pieces, figuring that the smaller the chunks the less work she’d have to do when she began to rub the butter together into the flour. She started this step then with looks of horror upon her face at having to have such a close relationship to the butter, and this was before she had even got around to making the buttercream. After a little while though she began enjoying it, the flour disguising the blobs of butter that slowly disintegrated into weird lumpy clumps. Sifting through the mixture, letting it rise and fall, like steady breathing or the cycle of water vapour, they became as evaporating flour specks, gathered into clouds in her hands and falling and plummeting back down to the pale yellow hill…

3. Add the icing sugar and lemon zest to the bowl and stir in with a fork, making sure it is evenly distributed throughout the mixture.
When satisfied that it was finely crumbed enough, she went looking for icing sugar, there was demerara sugar, white sugar, that beautiful luscious dark brown molasses sugar, before she finally found the white sugar dust, almost grainless. She sifted it into the bowl with a long handled fork searching for a grater of some description. Lemon and Sugar. She wondered if that was how he might view her, a tart sharp exterior, yet sugary underneath, but then he didn’t know underneath did he, none of them did, only her tart lemony exterior that tended to jarr, oh and that she was sort of ‘nice’ a cool cold exterior that didn’t feel much so therefore managed to qualify her as being nice, the perfect peacekeeper. She wished that she could be more open, as she buried the icing sugar and grated lemon zest in the mound of flour, thoughts of sharpness slowly being dulled in the bland flour crumbed butter lumps, boring and mundane with only hidden hints of lemon and sugar…

4. Mix the egg yolk with the water until well blended. Drizzle over the mixture while stirring continuously with a small, round-bladed knife.
She remembered making scones once in primary school, similar to pastry she supposed, and thinking back to that well, decided to recreate it. Didn’t her mother always say that you make a well in dry ingredients to add the wet ingredients into it. So with the well recreated in the lemon, sugar, flour crumbed butter mixture, she cracked the eggs against the side of the bowl and poured their contents into the well, flooding it. She looked at it in despair, egg yolks not eggs. She wasn’t sure if the whites were meant to be included or not, though it might be alright. And then she looked back at the recipe and groaned again, 'mix egg yolk with water and then drizzle it over the mixture', she was making pastry not scones. Blinking away the odd tear of frustration she tried to salvage it as best she could, so she drizzled the water over the mixture and began stirring it with a small round-bladed knife, it was one messy glomp of stuff, complete with an eyelash well coated by now in egg yolk, a messy glomp, just like everything else she ever tried to accomplish…

5. Working swiftly yet lightly, continue to stir everything together until the mixture starts to stick together in little lumps.
The glomp however gradually began to work itself into coherent little lumps as she rather furiously worked it over, certainly she was working swiftly, though she wasn’t so sure about that lightly bit. But is was only pastry she thought to herself, and most people tend to always leave that part of the tart as remains on their plate anyway, it was what filled the pastry case that mattered and she hadn’t stuffed that up, not that she’d started it or anything. So her thoughts returned to coherency and she discarded the round flat blunt knife to a side and glanced back at the cookery book to see what she was meant to do with these disorientated lumps, like the rather unusual conglomeration of friends who should be eating this later on…

6. Gently bring the small lumps of pastry together using the heel of the hand until they form a rough ball. The quicker you do this the better.
So she was to bring these disorientated lumps together then, uniting all these friends to one common interest, herself and an orange tart. Well she figured the orange tart and the assurance of plenty of alcohol would unify them more successfully than herself would, but then she didn’t have very much of a high opinion of herself did she. But as she kneaded them together with the firm heel of her hand into one giant lump she did also feel that it was her presence that created something of an atmosphere. Or was that just wishful thinking, she idly glanced back at the book and snorted, well she wasn’t ever one for haste, it had taken her months to settle on hosting this evening and she had merely sort of wandered into the kitchen in the morning to try and start making it in case it took longer then she thought…

7. Knead briefly on a lightly floured work surface until smooth. Wrap in clingfilm and chill for at least 1 hour preferably overnight. Chilling the pastry overnight helps prevent the pastry from shrinking during baking.
With much pulling and yanking and shoving and yelling abuse at the densely packed trays, she managed to free from the cupboards grasp, the large bread board that she needed to turn a lump into a pastry case. Dusting it down with some flour she plopped the lump into the middle sending flour dust flying in the air and making her sneeze. She kneaded it and kneaded it and was beginning to roll it out into a large disc when she thought she should just double check. ‘Chill for at least 1 hour preferably overnight’. Umm ‘oops'. She didn’t have overnight did she, it was meant to be a pastry base for a tart tonight, and it wouldn’t be much good to her if it was still wrapped in clingfilm and being chilled in the fridge now was it. Well she could always stick it there for an hour couldn’t she whilst she cleaned the house, so kneading it back into a ball she stuck it in the fridge and dusting down the flour began to dust the house…

8. Allow the pastry to come back to room temperature. Knead briefly until smooth, roll out and use to line the prepared tin. Prick the base all over with a fork and chill for 1 hour. Bake blind in the preheated oven for 10 minutes. Uncover and bake for a further 10-15 minutes. Remove from the oven and leave to cool.
So a cleaner house later it was finally time to turn that lump into a pastry case. Well she knew what to do having already tried to do it before. She wasn’t sure what kind of a prepared tin it meant but she decided on an educated guess of a tin rubbed with butter spread over a paper towel. She was good at that, educated guesses, but then sometimes she’d guess rather than follow the instructions set out as had happened in previous steps. So having rolled it out she folded it into a tin, hopefully the right sized tin for all the filling to fit into, happily stabbed away at it with a fork and stuck it back in the fridge to finish cleaning the house. Her nose was going red by now though with all the dust particles that were being disturbed and she was glad to retreat back to the kitchen, grabbing some stale old dry beans which she tipped over a piece of greaseproof paper lining the pastry tart as the oven ‘preheated’ to give it a blind bake for 10 minutes. She supposed she was being blind in all this process, blind to how the evening would turn out, she didn’t know how she was going to try and make some sort of a move towards him, the friends she invited would probably just make her nervous, but without them she’d have been to nervous to ask at all…

9. For the Buttercream, gently heat the granulated sugar and 4 tablespoons of cold water in a small heavy-based pan until dissolved. Bring to the boil and boil to the softball stage at 115ºC.
With the pastry happily baking away she turned her eye to the buttercream recipe, keeping an eye on the time so she didn’t burn it or anything. She figured granulated sugar was the grainy sort of sugar that didn’t pleasure the tongue as much as the finer ground sugars did. She debated briefly on whether to use tap water or to raid the mount franklin bottle of water in the fridge, before settling on the mount franklin, after all wasn’t one of her motto’s always to follow quality. So turning the oven off and the burners on she set to making a syrup out of her spring water and grainy sugar, but what on earth a softball stage was she hadn’t a clue, other than she should boil it to beyond boiling point to aim at about 115ºC. As the sugar boiled and dissolved away into the water she wondered if all her troubles might dissolve away too, from harsh little grains into silky syrup…

10. In another bowl lightly whisk the egg yolks. Gradually pour in the hot syrup, whisking vigorously all the time. Continue whisking for about 5 minutes, until the mixture is pale, thick and cool.
Another bowl, well she only had one medium sized bowl left over and hopefully it would be big enough or else it would be time for an emergency washing up of dishes. This time she decided to leave the majority of the egg whites behind in a separate dish, though some white still insisted on remaining close friends with the yolk, but she felt that it wouldn’t matter that much as she lightly whisked the bright yellow gems into some sort of less discernible form, the hot syrup fizzed and bubbled at the egg yolks seeming to take an instant disliking to them, but through persistant whisking till her hand felt like it was going to begin screaming at the mixture, it began to look as it should, pale, thick and cool, through all that furious whisking and disparate forms they finally seemed to agree to join together as one, perhaps that was what was needed to finally find some sort of satisfaction in life, to stop sitting quietly waiting for things to happen and begin whisking till they did…

11. Beat the butter until pale and creamy. Gradually beat in spoonfuls of the cooled egg and sugar mixture. The egg yolk mixture must be cool before it is added to the butter or the butter will melt. Beat in the vanilla extract. Beat in the orange juice and the finely grated zest of 1 orange. Chill in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.
More beating, it seemed that to make a delicious cake it would have to be bashed and battered into complacency, she’d idly thought once that she’d make the perfect wife to someone old fashioned. Quiet and diligent, useful and not outspoken, reserved and inward, yet despite exterior complacency she would be able to indulge in inward melancholia and insanity. Though perhaps that wouldn’t work very well, so butter beaten into submission she spooned with a gentle hand in quite a motherly fashion, the almost cooled egg and sugar mixture, softly folding the two pale mixtures together till they made one pale if somewhat slightly congealed form due to the butter melting a little on her. But with more folding it started to look alright again and with the vanilla extract, orange juice and grated zest it seemed to form into a kind of harmony, soft and pale with the slight sense of seductive fruit…

12. Beat the icing sugar into the buttercream, then spread it over the base of the pastry case. Chill for 1 hour.
More icing sugar, and more beating, there seemed to be something of repetitive patterns here. But it was all working out wasn’t it, and she and her flan would be a perfect success this evening. She indulged herself in licking the remnants of orange cream from the bowl after she’d so carefully and diligently spread the cream over the shrunken pastry case. The case may be a bit wobbly, but the buttercream was laid out perfectly even and smoothe, so it was a shame that the pastry case didn’t look so neat but it couldn’t be helped. Whilst the flan chilled she fixed herself up a quick pasta dish for lunch and had just settled down to eat it when the phone rang, it was him and he couldn’t make it tonight. She nodded solemnly into the phone and agreed that there was always next time round…

13. For the remaining filling, put the sugar, orange juice and lemon juice into a large, deep frying pan. Leave over a low heat until the sugar has dissolved. Bring to the boil and simmer for 20 minutes.
Discarding the lunch bowls and washing everything up with rather a vigorous application of dishwasher bubbles and scrubbing and drying she turned back to her flan. Everyone else was still coming and even if he wasn’t going to be there she might as well still make a good impression on her friends, but it didn’t seem so important any more, well she’d make a beautiful cake and then everyone could tease him on how he missed it, then the impression might still be made, if all but secondhandedly. So cutting the oranges and lemons with rather sharp wrathful chops she squeezed the living daylights out of the poor fruit and enjoyed boiling and simmering the fruit in the sugar as she seethed and boiled over his cancellation of her grand affair…

14. Score the skin of the oranges from the stalk end to the navel with a cannelling of small sharp knife. Cut across into 2.5mm thick slices. Be sure to score the skin of the oranges thoroughly before simmering the slices in the syrup otherwise they become tough and chewy.
She’s managed to burn her hand a little on some spitting syrup after letting it boil a little too much, making it more of a toffee syrup. She retrieved the remaining oranges from the bottom of the sink and began removing the tough ends. She’d boiled and simmered enough over the syrup that she was able to perform this task with a little more caution, as she carefully scored all over the oranges before deftly slicing them into segments. Satisfied that they were probably scored enough and looked pretty enough if a little bit squashed in corners from where her fingers were pressing down on them, they were ready for the next part of the process, and with a few calming breathes perhaps she was too…

15. Lower into the syrup and simmer for 20-30 minutes or until tender. Lift the slices on to a wire rack and leave to drain for 1 hour.
She plopped and dropped the segments into the syrup, none of this cautious lowering business, a good plop was needed despite the unfortunate splashes it tended to make over the top of the stove, but a good plop was a very satisfying sensation to witness, so plop and splash they went. She let them simmer away unwatched whilst she remembered to look ahead to the next step and realise she didn’t have any rum. Half an hour later she was racing back inside with a bottle of rum, some port and some vodka. She immediately set to rescuing her orange segments, that were perhaps left to simmer a tad longer then they would have preferred, though they were still suitable as they hadn’t hardened up beyond tender yet. So they were left to dry on the wire rack with paper towel beneath them whilst she finished tending to the remains of the syrup…

16. Boil the syrup until reduced and thickened. Stir in the rum and leave to cool.
She stood over the stove impatiently wielding a wooden spoon and a bottle of rum waiting for the syrup to look like it was ‘reduced and thickened’. Though at the moment the only thing to be reduced was her soberity as she took some swigs out of the rum, merely to test its suitability for pleasing syrup, and quite pleasing it was too. The dark sugary rum would go nicely with the dark sugary orange syrup, as soon as it bloody reduced enough to incorporate. She eventually just gave up on it, though it had actually reduced more than she thought, and a hefty dollop of rum was added, much more than the recipe dictated and she abandoned the flan, syrup, orange segments and whatever else needed time to cool down, whilst she decided on an afternoon nap to wear off the effects of alcohol…

17. Arrange the orange slices over the buttercream and spoon over a layer of syrup.
It was much later in the afternoon before she stirred a little to finish arranging the flan. So she set to arranging the orange slices over the buttercream, nicely cooled by now, and spooning over a layer of syrup. She looked at the flan then and sort of shrugged, it looked ok, it wasn’t of startling brilliant appearance as she has first hoped of it, but perhaps it might taste alright, though she’d probably stuffed that up also. So with her head groggy with depression she trundled back to bed setting the alarm for half 7, figuring she’d only need half an hour to get ready, so at half 7 it startled her awake. Her mouth dry and parched she opted for a quick shower, cleaning her teeth and getting spruced up in something nice, even if he wasn’t there, was well needed to freshen up her spirits. This left her with about 20 minutes to sit and ponder the specks on the wall considering none of her friends were aware of the concept of punctuality. ..

18. Remove from tin to serve.
Some time later there was only small flecks of pastry left scattered over the lounge room floor and table, the orange flan well polished off. She was satisfied that it had been a good thing to choose and even the chocoholics weren’t disappointed, but she hadn’t realised until she went to serve it that she’d forgotten to provide something in the way of a main meal. But no one cared, with yummy orange flan in their tummy’s and a fair proportion of liqueur everyone was in good spirits. Chatting away and singing songs of love, they drank their way through the night, and she was perfectly at ease in what turned out to be a perfect evening even if it was the vodka that was appreciated the most…