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She who turns the handle reaps the flour.
That familiar rhythm calls up in my memory the elusive original, whose exact words escape me. With luck they will appear abruptly even as I am still writing and will be unrepentant at having hidden.
He who pays the piper calls the tune. Close, but that's not it.
The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. Now THAT's the one I was looking for.
Having satisfied my memory-keeper, I can return to the topic: I am not a sifter. I can say that for sure, despite having grown up as a sifter to three brothers and two actual sifters. No, I am a whisk.
On lazy days I might resemble a hand-held eggbeater instead, but I am more truly a whisk, a balloon whisk calling for a giant's bowl (copper by preference) and a good strong wrist. A whisk-wrist flicks and snaps to turn egg whites into snow-peaks or an egg yolk and some oil into a stiff silky emulsion sharpened with vinegar and mustard.
Taste that, and you'll never return to Hellmann's.
A wooden spoon stirs things up. Not me. I beat them to a froth. I whip ethereal bubbles into whatever you bring me. I lighten your life.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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