In my recipe file there is a recipe I have not made in many years.  It’s is handwritten in my own script and labeled, “Mrs. Snyder’s Cheese Soufflé.” I never met Mrs. Snyder; the recipe was given to me by one of my college roommates.

 

In September of 1968, after heeding the advice of friends who had gone to college before me, I packed my bags and headed for Boston University.

 

I had been assigned to a dormitory room in a three-tower 18-story building that housed 1500 students, 1000 young women and 500 young men.  All of the women were upper classmen except for me.  I had a letter from my doctor saying that I needed accessible housing. 

 

My first roommate’s name was Nancy.  She appeared impatient and angry much of the time.  I was, after all, probably like a pesky younger sister, an enthusiastic freshman. Nan had already made the transition to smoking dope and doing as little studying as possible.

 

Nan and I only lasted a short time as roommates.  She wanted to use my closet as well as hers and habitually searched the contents of my drawers.  I requested a new roommate when I discovered she was opening my mail.

 

When Eileen’s roommate agreed to trade rooms with me, I shifted my bags across the hall. Eileen had developed a reputation in the dorm as a gloomy woman. She had just returned from a year in France. Eileen was rarely seen talking to anyone; in the cafeteria she sat alone reading. She had covered the lights in her room with scarves, which made it appear cave-like. The voice of Edith Piaf crooned from her stereo system. She dressed mostly in black, her curly light brown hair crammed into a felt beret.

 

Eileen smoked unfiltered cigarettes, drawing a mystical puff into her mouth and then parting her lips while inhaling through her nose. I was very impressed by the curls of smoke that circled over her upper lip and then disappeared in front of her face as she inhaled through her nose.

 

It did not take me long to realize, however, that Eileen worked at looking moody and mysterious. It was not easy for a small town girl to appear sophisticated.

 

Mrs. Snyder was not from Paris, but from Vermont, like Eileen. I cannot recall why Eileen gave me a copy of the recipe, but it gave me great pleasure to make it for my parents when I went home on college breaks. 

 

That Cheese Soufflé recipe reminds me of Eileen. It appears to be foreign and complex, but the ingredients are as simple as a Vermont kitchen larder: butter, flour, milk, eggs and some shredded cheese. When combined properly and seasoned to taste, then left alone to bake slowly in the low heat of the oven, it creates a puff of intrigue.