By Marisa Gillen

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Bonding over brulee never seemed so sweet. I was raised by a dear woman who believed cooking was something that should be done by the household help. This would have been fine had there been household help.

In her lifetime, my mother mastered a grand total of two dishes, brisket and sweet-and-sour meatballs, which she proudly created for every family event through the decades. The recipes were strikingly similar in their use of her secret ingredients, ketchup and ginger ale.

As a result, my brother and I spent our childhoods enhancing the coffers of the newly-opened Burger King and McDonald’s. Years later, after searching the world of cooking beyond the golden arches, I was fortunate enough to land a stint as a food writer and restaurant critic for a major newspaper.

I proudly admit that I love all things food and food-related. I breathe the Food Network (note above reference to “Secret Ingredient”). I record “Iron Chef” for nights of insomnia. I am a member of “Cooking Contests Central” and  have been known invade restaurant kitchens to learn how to cook something new.

And so, it was never a surprise, that my son, Mike, decided to become a chef. He has been blessed from toddlerhood with an innate talent for preparing Asian cuisine — and a no-less-important gift for cooking without spilling. He is the only person allowed in my kitchen when I cook. My husband runs the other way when I am in full cooking mode, with warnings to our younger son, “Stay out of the kitchen! She’s gonna blow!”

What’s the logic?
When Mike chose French desserts as his senior project for the cooking program at the Middle Bucks Institute of Technology, I was a bit dismayed. My dessert-making skills, such as they are, do not extend to Auguste Escoffier-inspired haute cuisine patisserie, and Mike’s only real claim to sugar fame was a first place in a gingerbread house competition and, not nearly as impressive, his ability to create enormous towers of Oreo cookies to consume.

Thus began the search for a recipe he could recreate and videotape to wow the MBIT senior project panel. I watched “Ultimate Recipe Showdown” Las Vegas pastry and sugar episodes. I called friends. I ate a lot of pastry. I gained 10 pounds. Eventually, Mike decided to create crème brulee. My 14-year-old son, Jesse, was happy because this is, hands down, his favorite restaurant dessert.

Showing up mom
Mike and I never get along so well as when we are shopping together. The act of spending money seems to be the tie that binds. We purchased traditional fluted ramekins and a really cute little butane torch. I ordered caster sugar from a specialty store online. We bonded.

Then we searched for the perfect recipe. Where to begin? There were hundreds. We tested a lot — eggnog brulee, raspberry-white chocolate brulee, Irish Crème brulee, even the one on the box that the torch came in. That one never even set. Eventually, Mike decided to create a basic crème brulee, simple and pure of flavor.

Since the ingredients and accessories had already cost me over $70 — plus the $400 for a new hard drive camcorder — , I was grateful for the simplicity of his plan.

I tested the recipe before Chef Mike descended from the heights of his bedroom to prepare it for the video. I poured my prepared custard into beautiful, new, white ramekins and placed them carefully on a clean, new, French blue dishtowel purchased for this occasion and then into a pan that was then partially filled with water.

When the timer rang, announcing that the test crèmes were finished, I noticed that the water they were cooking in had turned a gorgeous royal blue, as had the tops of all my crème brulees. The dye had leached from the dishtowel. Much as we adore crème brulee, I did insist we throw this batch away, though Jesse fought me hard on that.

Dressed in his immaculate white toque, jacket, apron and checked pants, I watched Mike become at one with his environment. Beginning again, with my ancient dishtowels,  he produced a perfect second batch — his first.

Mike found a dish that he can now proudly serve to friends and family. Like his grandmother before him, he has developed a signature recipe. Darn him. I was hoping to use it myself, but, like I said, a mother’s love knows no bounds.