Smokey the Magnificent

10:32 - Under-layer of fondant successfully applied to all three cakes. Helpdesk Man, who was also stricken with the deathpox, is lying in bed next to a bucket. The snortlepig thought it would be amusing to watch as I dusted the table with icing sugar, and then plant her foot in the middle of it. Oddly enough I still like her; it must be the fever. Am keeping body and soul on nodding terms with scraps of cake and fondant.

11:39 - Realised any skill I once possessed at making icing roses has disappeared, either due to the passage of years or rapidly-progressing nerve damage. Am Googling “how to make icing roses”.

12:02 - In a martyr-like display of maternal solicitude, made bacon and eggs for me and the snortlepig. Snortlepig choked on a piece of bacon rind. Proudly: “I throw up!” Peering, delighted: “I throw up BACON!”

1:36 - Seven roses of somewhat dubious botanical verisimilitude completed. The pig keeps eating the flower paste. Helpdesk Man has staggered out of bed and had a bowl of ice cream, despite my warnings that Dairy is Mucous-Forming.

2:56 - Have piped a large number of royal icing butterflies on greaseproof paper. It calmed me temporarily into a trance-like state, until I sneezed three times and my amygdala got lodged in my sinuses.

6:13 - All cakes fully masked. Had a break for a while giving the pig the milks and watching a bit of Volver, which Helpdesk Man and I started watching last night upon discovering it in several Top Feelgood Movies of All Time lists. Last night the main character’s no-good husband tried to rape her teenage daughter, who killed him with a knife. About the time she started dragging the body to a nearby chest freezer we decided we didn’t Feelgood, and went to bed. Today, while the snortlepig slept and had the milks, the main character engaged a local prostitute to help her dump the body. I also learned the main character’s father had had an affair with another woman, who may or may not have burned him and his wife to death before leaving town, and whose daughter is now dying of cancer. It’s a gay romp, I tell you. It’s also subtitled, so after half an hour of this my eyes started to frizzle and I decided icing the wedding cake would be more Feelgood. Incidentally: never trust things you read on the internet.

8:11 - You know what I’d do if I ever wanted to torture someone real bad? I’d find one of those tiny freezer compartments you get in fridges, all iced up thick around the edges. And I’d hold his hand in it for five minutes until it was good and chilly. And then I’d bang it back and forth, not particularly hard, against the sides. And then I’d do it again. It would be extremely unpleasant. I’ve affixed the roses to the top tier and placed a few butterflies on wires amongst them, but they had a high mortality rate when I peeled them off the waxed paper so I’m making another batch. I asked Helpdesk Man and Flatmate Man to saw my dowelling, but Flatmate Man is as drunk as a large, smallish fish and Helpdesk Man has oosed off to get some Burger Fuel for dinner, me being both too busy and too infested to make the boeuf bourguignon for dinner, which yes, actually was on the meal plan, although admittedly not spelled quite that well.

10:39 - Yay! Apart from putting in the ribbon, the cake is DONE. Including some spare butterflies to give the transport girl in case anything shatters in the car, which is sadly likely - those butterflies are ridiculously fragile. As are the real ones, though - realism, innit. Anyway. I am going to bed.

Sometimes, the sheer volume of the things I plan to make and sew overwhelms my brain like a load of laundry in a wardrobe, and makes my eyes twitch. This is a Bad Thing. Not a totally bad thing, as it allows me to think of myself as a crafty person brimming with ideas; but on the occasions I break through this happy bubble and realise I haven’t done anything more creative for a month than sweeping around a rectangle on the floor and pretending it was a rug, it makes me feel very small inside, and then I have to go eat carbs.

At the moment, my list of unfinished creative enterprises runs as follows (not in bullet-point form, as a) the length would be depressing and b) bullet points are too orderly to represent the reality of the situation): a small cushion made out of scraps from my wedding dress, a pink and green Irish chain quilt for the pig, another one in flannel for the pig in winter, both justifiably put on hold as she doesn’t have a bed of her own right now anyway; half a winter wardrobe of dove-grey, pink, beige and blue clothes for the pig, for which I bought fabrics, only it turns out she has plenty of clothes; the pig’s art station, a blackboard/whiteboard easel thing from the inlaws which I wish to make steampunky and awesome, because it doesn’t match the living room; a knee-length swooshy dress made with this awesomely manly tweed from the thrift store, whose very essence I wish to subvert by lining it with a dusky rose print and adding lace and doing cap sleeves and stuff; a grey more-than-a-circle skirt; a lace pettiskirt; lacy pantalettes, just below knee length; a pair of knitted stockings with little Xes all up the front, even though I suspect this will not look as good on me as on the Gibbous model; a pair of knitted stockings with horizontal blue and tannish stripes, sort of Alice in Wonderlandy, even though ditto; a pair of knitted lacy cream arm warmers that I’ve been knitting since the dawn of time; three unspecified baby gifts for recently ex-foetal pigs; typographical miniature cushions with ampersands and things on them for Helpdesk Man’s office, not that he’s holding his breath; a brown duster like Helpdesk Man’s current black one; a floor-length voluminous winter coat for me in smoky blue; a shorter one from the same pattern in some unexpected colour, so as to make me known in the boroughs as the Girl With the [undetermined but totally groovy] Colour Coat, which is on hold indefinitely as I can’t think of the right colour; a pair of natty lace wristlets, possibly done with very thin string in crochet, if I learn how; another pair of arm warmers with the leftovers from my pinstriped skirt, with dozens of little shroomy Victorian buttons down the side; a Mod Cloth-inspired grey dress with an asymmetrical cowly collar that makes me look like a scifi heroine; a demure grey pinny with tucks on the bodice, cunningly concealing invisible zips for breastfeeding access; a truly awesome autumn leaf quilt for the master bedroom, which is so ambitious I wisely refrained from buying the fabric and committing myself, but it still pesks my mind; a more doable but still not done bronze and blue bedspread cover, because Helpdesk Man doesn’t like the Laura Ashley one I got on sale three years ago, and it has ink on it; a cool Star Trek quilt I have vague and noble intentions to make for Helpdesk Man’s best friend’s couch, which is unseemly; somehow creatively ModPodgeing my old faux leather boots which are falling apart and showing their faux; a fairy-inspired dress with a ballet top and froofy skirt, for which I bought a lot of expensive fabrics and then panicked because they are sheers and I don’t do sheers, and they’re too expensive to mess up; a Grecian evening gown with a woven bodice which I want to make with some fabric someone gave me, only I don’t think my hips will stand the cut and I don’t have much occasion to wear evening gowns anyway, and Helpdesk Man wouldn’t like it because he objects to dresses that don’t have a defined waist; a pinstriped zipup dress based on a top I got from an op shop, but trying to copy the pattern gave me a headache; a top for the pig made out of this awesome dragonfly flannel I got last year, but she doesn’t need it and by the time she does it’ll be too small to make a whole top; a mini quilt I made ages ago to cover the changing table, which still needs to be bound but is a bit rubbish; a hand-sewn chevron quilt I started years ago, but I’ve gone off the colours; several underbust corsets, because I bought a bunch of spiral steel boning and things a while back, but am waiting on eyelets and inspiration and diligence, etc; new oven mitts; a new manly apron for Helpdesk Man, because his other one went missing; some summery, holidayish fifties-style bright dresses to wear to Disneyland next year to improve our festive moods, including a red polka-dot dress for the pig like Minnie Mouse wears; a smoky blue knitted hoodie with a frill around the bottom and a cabled tree on the back; a knitted grey dress with words from the end of The Return of the King chain-stitched all over it, in case I ever need to go to a book-signing; a harem pant/bellydance-inspired pair of pyjamas, although ovbiously not with dangly coins on them, but with breastfeeding access, but not until my current PJs wear out because of the environment, and they’re proving to be very long-lived; a fairy costume for my friend who’s a fairy at children’s parties, for no good reason except I looked at her costume she bought online and thought “Muahaha, I could totally make that”; a knitted top or two for Helpdesk Man; knitted knee-high socks for me and the pig that have demure wee bows at the top; a new Roman blind for the room of Flatmate Man, because the current one looks like a girly shower curtain; a stuffed pig for my nephew, which was supposed to be his Christmas present, but I got bored with the nose; a knitted top for the pig from a pattern I found online; a two-layer cutout top for the pig that I started making, but it wasn’t going well so I shelved it; and an assortment of hair accessories for myself to match the clothes I am planning to make.

You see the issue? I wouldn’t even swear that’s the lot, either. There’s a bolster cover lurking on my sewing shelf whose origins I can’t even remember… two, actually. Now, not all these ideas are unfinished in the sense that I actually started sewing them. Some of them are nearly done, some I have the fabric for but no notions, some just milled around in my head long enough for me to construct a precise plan. The point is, I spent a lot of mental energy on them. I spent weeks planning that autumn leaf quilt, and I knew at the time it was doomed, even as I said hopefully to myself “I could do a block a week, while I watched movies; it’d only take a few years”. I still have the sketches somewhere, probably.

In fact, the sobering thought occurs to me that if my next year’s New Year’s Resolution was “Finish up all unfinished or thought-out projects”, I couldn’t do it. Not a chance. Not in a year. Does that seem right to you?

Anyway, in the spirit of ignoring my own inadequacies, I thought I would show you pictures of the projects I have actually completed in recent history. Not the squab I finally finished for the bedroom window seat, because it’s a bit dubious and the light was all funny. Here’s a muskrat instead.

Pretty nifty, no?

Here’s a bowtie scarf I made.

This here’s m’ pig.

I made her dress.

She likes it.

I went all arty with the bodice, and Helpdesk Man laughed at me. He is basically a smegger.

He did, however, insist on me putting a bow at the back (see above re. defined waists, which is amoosing because if there’s one attribute the pig doesn’t have, it is a defined waist), and that helps.

Also, in true marvy craft blogger form, this dress was made out of an old bedsheet. Weep in awe.

Anyway. I also made her a hat from a Ruffles and Stuff tute, which is not that super but does in a pinch. She hates it, acourse. She’s always pulling off her hats. But I got her to cooperate while I was taking photos by getting her to say “communism”.

I also knitted her a wee scarf and handwarmers.

And I finished my pinstriped skirt.

That was a rubbish photo and it makes me faintly moop, so I will conclude with another muskrat.

Pretty nifty, no?

Feh! I am in a culinary mood, but all the recipes I know seem mundane and all the ones I find online have cacao nibs and creme fraiche in them. Not that that’s a bad thing, but judging by the reactions of the staff at Pak’N'Save when I asked if they had rennet, I don’t fancy my chances.

I have, however, completed two tasks of kitchenness today. The first, defrosting the freezer - well, technically, wiping the mould out from the freezer I started defrosting the other day until I got bored - we shall not speak of. The second was starting a batch of sauerkraut. I am not fond of sauerkraut. Nevertheless, Sally Fallon recommends it so sternly that I feel obliged to try it at least once. It’s pretty simple to make, in theory - all I did was mash half a head of chopped cabbage, two carrots, three cloves of garlic and some peppercorns and mustard seeds with salt for ten minutes. This draws out the humours and exhausts a small percentage of the snortlepig’s destructive powers, until she gets distracted and spills your entire bag of black mustard seeds over the floor. The kraut is now chillin’ on the bench, lactofermenting away, and in a week or two, if all goes well, my intestinal flora will be so lushly biodiverse that armies will quail before them. I’m also attempting a sourdough starter on the bench next to the sauerkraut, which now I think on it may not be wise. The beasties will probably hybridise into some hideous Frankenzyme and kill us all. Still, it is called wild fermentation; one learns to live on the edge.

Also, this will make you happy. If it doesn’t, that’s probably the universe’s way of telling you something.

It’s Easter Saturday - that strange, lonesome day in the middle of a bunch of public holidays, presumably designed to prevent teenage girls who work at the ice cream shop from spending those public holidays sunning themselves in Raratonga. But I haven’t worked at the ice cream shop for years. The situation, then, currently runs thusly:

• Helpdesk Man is at a friend’s house playing a violent computer game for the second day straight. He will probably stagger in at midnight, have nightmares about psionic monkeys and pull the blankets over his head in the morning, plaintively declaring he doesn’t want to go to church.
• My dear friend April was gonna come by and watch movies, but is sleepy after her sister’s wedding so changed her mind.
• I am home alone with the snortlepig.

On occasions this sort of situation depresses me, but on others - like when, as now, I have nearly half a large jam tart in the fridge - the thrill of possibility runs through my veins. Because anything could happen. I could, if I had the oomph, walk the pig down to the public gardens and feed stale hot cross buns to the duckies. I could concoct a ridiculously elaborate dinner and leave the dishes. I could begin a new sewing project. I could start a novel. I could dance around to the Beatles in my smalls. I could rag-curl my hair and smear kaolin clay on my face, and then quote lines from Restless. I could watch old episodes of Lois and Clark. Or I could clean a small, insignificant part of the house impeccably so that Helpdesk Man would notice in a week or two and make a comment and I could be all smug - I get a kick out of that, sometimes. I cleaned a wall the other day, and it made an astonishing difference. I recommend this.

Or I might watch Monty Python clips on YouTube. Or go through the hand-me-downs in the glory box to see if anything fits the snortlepig for next season. Or, ooh, make popcorn. Or something for church lunch tomorrow, which would be more to the point.

Or, I could get distracted googling the top 10 food blogs while writing this post, and suddenly find it’s 7PM and the piggie has been asleep on my arm for so long it’s gone numb. Still, though. Things could happen.

You know what’s dismal and moopifying? Trying a fancy recipe from a slick food blog - a recipe the blogger praised to the stars, gushed about in a friendly yet authoritative way and photographed in glorious closeup with bokeh and the good spoons - and finding the finished product to be insipid.

This has happened to me a number of times recently, and it’s not that I’m a bad cook. Really. A friend of mine once spontaneously referred to my cupcakes as “little gems of sunshine”, and she’s not even the poetical type. Before our semi-regular braais, whatever chump gets stuck buying the meat brings it over a day early to my house so I can soak it in my wondrous marinade. The biggest fan of my pumpkin pie is a guy who doesn’t even like pumpkin. The point is, I can cook, dammit.

And as someone who can cook, I tend to prick up my ears when a blogger of the calibre of Pioneer Woman or Smitten Kitchen starts raving over a recipe. (By the by, did you know Pioneer Woman’s autobiographical love story Black Heels to Tractor Wheels is going to be made into a movie? True’s I’m sitting here. They’re considering Reese Witherspoon for the lead. I’m really not sure how I feel about all this. Anyway.) You get six stunningly glossy photos, rhapsodies about the rhapsodies of the guests who got to eat the thing, and comparisons to similar products from swanky-sounding restaurants who would allegedly close their doors and commit seppuku if they tasted this, the food blogger’s infinitely grander version.

And then you make it. And it’s…. nice. But no more. In some cases, to add insult to injury, it turns out to be less nice than a recipe you already had (making you secretly pleased and curious as to what heights of enthusiasm said blogger would sustain if she tasted your recipe, and considering sending it in, but refraining because a) food bloggers get that all the time, b) it goes against your upbringing to send emails that say “Your brownies were rubbish, mine are better”, and c) you harbor a tiny possessive streak that forbids it, because what if you want to have your own food blog some day, or even write a cookbook? - even though you know you won’t, because you can’t photograph to save your life and have no discipline). And sure, sometimes you can attribute this to using Pam’s chocolate chips instead of grated Valrhona 70%, or omitting the sun-ripened seasonal figs from the beaming Frenchman with photogenically wrinkled hands at the market who can name to the millisecond when they will start to pong, because you’re not a pretentious privileged gi - I mean, because your supermarket hasn’t stocked figs for years. But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes the recipe is just average.

Now, I get why they do it, of course. There are a lot of food blogs out there, and who’s going to make a cake on the description “Ehh, it’ll fill up a chink in the old tum” when the rest of the blogosphere is claiming their recipe will cause your old high school flame to ring you up that very night, the heavens to open and Elvis to return from the dead? Similarly, who after posting a truly delicious recipe is going to admit that the next few are a come-down, a sop to the necessity of not buying a bucket of creme fraiche every night? And so it begins, a vicious cycle of one-upmanship, and perfectly decent recipes get Botoxed, corseted, squeezed into evening gowns and nudged out onto a stage in front of thousands. One almost feels sorry for them standing there simpering, saying “Oh wow, I’m only a little cake from Texas and this is just such an honour, um, I’d like to thank my mum…”, while knowing deep in their cakey little hearts that it is all a Sham and a Lie.

And if you were not convinced by the photos and the promise that the eating of this cake will provide a spiritual experience so intense that the soles of your feet will be lifted off the ground and you will lapse into a brief coma, there are the comments - all 680 of them. But the thing about the comments, on popular food blogs, this is… is that nobody ever makes the darn thing. It’s all “Oooooh, you’ve done it again! *runs to kitchen*” and “Oh my, I’m totally bookmarking this, how sinful and delicious, my thighs will kill me!”. Which is all very well, but it’s hardly peer-reviewed, innit?

This is not to say that food blogs never produce good recipes. But I’ve had a run of several which have proven disappointing. Smitten Kitchen’s Double Chocolate Torte, for instance, which I made for Helpdesk Man’s birthday. It was OK - I did not blush as I served it, and none of my guests puked it into the bougainvillea - but it wasn’t superlative, and I won’t be making it again. The cake layer was basically a not-as-good-as-mine chocolate brownie, and the top layer a not-as-good-as-mine chocolate mousse (with a slightly salty taste because of the butter. Who puts butter in chocolate mousse?). Similarly, Pioneer Woman’s “The Best Chocolate Sheet Cake. Ever“. Again, not a bad cake, but hardly inspirational. Not something I’d make twice. Certainly not “moist beyond imagination, chocolatey and rich like no tomorrow, and 100% of the time, causes moans and groans from anyone who takes a bite”-able, despite Ree’s promise. David Lebovitz’s Butterscotch Pudding? Bland and cloggy. Helpdesk Man didn’t finish his. And tonight, I decided to have another stab at something creamy and butterscoid, so I made Caramel Pudding, again from Smitten Kitchen. Now, it may taste vastly more delicious after chilling in the fridge, and I hope it will; but judging from preliminary spoon-licking tests, it is no more than adequate.

It peeves me, people.

And lest you think I am picking on these bloggers, SK’s dulce de leche cheesecake squares - ironically, a recipe about which she was less enthused than usual - were pretty yummy, and David Lebovitz’s basic French vanilla ice cream is a thing of beauty and a joy forever (as is his chocolate ice cream, according to Helpdesk Man). (You know, I’m trying to think of a really delicious PW recipe I’ve made, and nothing springs to mind. Isn’t that catty of me? I don’t think I’ve cooked much of her stuff, though. I remember Helpdesk Man didn’t like the Crash Hot Potatoes…)

So, anyway. I love food blogs. They are marvellous. But I am beginning to view their claims with a distrustful and rheumy eye. I’ve had much better luck with recipes ranked by popular vote - the New York Cheesecake on Allrecipes is truly spectacular. So if you are a food blogger casting your eye over my humble pages (and chances are slim, you’re probably my mum, but if you’re not her)…. tone it down a bit, k? Be courageous. Say “This really hit the spot last night when I had pregnancy cravings and would have eaten the fridge if it hadn’t been wedged in, but this morning I think it’s a bit soggy in the middle - but hey, give it a go”. Or take a hint from Presbyterian church supper cookbooks of yore and say “This is an extremely economical pudding”. But don’t play havoc with hopes. One can only get so emotionally invested in caramel-flavoured gloop before succumbing to ulcers, and that wouldn’t be good for your readership, would it?

80kmph, fifth gear, successfully avoided a pukeko, managed a couple of intersections and only changed into first gear in mistake for third twice. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Driving round curves, in particular, reminded me very much of sewing - in fact, at one point I had a strong impulse to get out of the car and clip the curve of the road for a neater edge. Fortunately, I did not mention this to my father-in-law.

Today, as happens once every several years, I had an attack of domesticity. My usual prudent approach in such a situation is to lie down until it goes away, but today I did not. So far I have made a large batch of tabbouleh, from largely home-grown ingredients, no less; put a tray of cherry tomatoes in the oven to dry; and conceived the staggeringly brilliant notion of pulling out the old, tough lettuce plants to make room for some new ones.

I am now going to go organise the top shelf of the wardrobe. There are T-shirts up there in the incorrect piles. This cannot be.

Update: Helpdesk Man’s T-shirts have now been arranged by colour. By colour, maggots. Are you that good a wife? I didn’t think so.

Further update: It seems people have found my blog through Googling the phrases “do torvill and dean give each other birthday presents”, “neaps or neeps” and “security knickers”. Awesome.

1.Have you ever noticed that the face in the moon does not merely look like a generic old man with a moustache, but is exactly like Matthew Cuthbert from the Megan Follows Anne of Green Gables?
2. Me: “Do you like Parmesan cheese?”
Helpdesk Man: “It tastes like spew.”
Me: “But do you like it?”
Helpdesk Man: “Ehh, it’s alright.”
3. If you should hear the snortlepig telling you she pats winos, do not be alarmed. We took her to the zoo. And she did not pat the rhinos, merely ooed at them from over the fence, but it is sweet that she thinks she did. Maybe I can show her pictures of Europe and pretend when she grows up that we took her there.
4. I do not like audience participation. We went to a pantomime of Beauty and the Beast in the public gardens, and it was full of actresses chirpily cooing “Good morning!” Subdued mutter. “I can’t hear you!” Grudging rumble. “I said, good morning!” Pained bellow as the audience realises they are being held hostage and won’t get to the see the show unless they pony up with a yell. This always annoys me, but particularly when the initial response is more than adequate… which, however, was not the case yesterday. At any rate, I refused to be blackmailed and sat Britishly sulking until Belle abandoned her efforts to whip us into a frenzy - whether because she thought them a success or a failure, I do not care to speculate.

Today I took the plunge and booked my learner’s licence test. It was exciting, and nearly didn’t happen - the grim-faced woman behind the desk informed me that my tenancy agreement was insufficient proof of address, and I sulked for a bit and contemplated going home before realising in a fit of (by my standards) brilliance that I could pop to the bank and get a proof of address form there. So I did. On my return the grim woman loosened up considerably - clearly realising I was not, after all, a lightweight but committed to the task, as a convert to Judaism who must be turned away three times by the rabbis - and paid several compliments to the snortlepig.

Unfortunately my calculated gamble of doing my hair in a hurry did not pay off. It turns out they take the photo before you take your test, not after. So my learner’s licence will feature me will a severely pulled-back librarian bun and a somewhat grim expression, the latter occasioned by the snortlepig trying to climb on my knee and saying “Milks!” as the flash went off. Ah well. Maybe it will impress the police.

My test is at 11:15 next Wednesday. Sadly they have just switched to computerised tests, not scratchies. I like scratchies. Scratch and sniff would be even better, but probably frivolous under the circumstances. At any rate, if I fail to blog about it you must assume the worst and be appropriately sympathetic.

Tomorrow my practically only small sister is coming over to make ravioli, and we will have Pumpkin and Brown Sugar Creme Brulee for dessert. Doesn’t it look luscious?

Well, I did my taxes. It was ‘orrible. We will not speak of it. Then today I trundled the snortlepig into town and handed the form to the lady behind the desk, prepared to offer whatever explanations and apologies for my incompetence were deemed necessary, as well as a largeish wodge of money. Fortunately (I guess) both were put on hold, as it turns out they need to go through my form and check it before they officially charge me. In which case, if they’re gonna do it anyway, why did I have to do them??? I beamed at the lady and left before she could discover that the snortlepig had drawn in pencil all over Page 3.

While in town we did a few errands and ended up at the library, where I had a moment of bliss as I discovered both The Joy of Cooking and The Perfect Scoop were available. The latter is considered to be THE ice cream recipe book, containing such dubiously chic items as Red Bean Granita and Olive Oil Ice Cream. Inspired, I read through the whole thing and decided to make butterscotch caramel ripple stracciatella trufitos. Unfortunately my enthusiasm took a downturn when I made the Creamy Caramel Sauce and Helpdesk Man said “It tastes like cough mixture. Ew.” If anything, I undercooked it according to the directions, but it managed to acquire a burned taste nonetheless, and burned caramel is one of the unpleasanter things in life. (It was also one of the few exciting things we did in science class, but what principle it was meant to illuminate I cannot recall. Nothing ice cream related.) I might try again: the texture was gorgeous, anyway.

The next day, back at the ranch:

Ha! Success. Third time lucky. I tried making the sauce again last night - basically, you melt sugar into caramel and then whisk cream in while wearing an oven mitt to protect yourself from searing burns. Unfortunately I got a bit excited trying to get the sugar to melt before the snortlepig woke up, and stirred the caramel more than one is supposed to, thus causing it to clump up and take far longer to melt. And then the baby woke up. So I tipped the toffee onto a greased plate and will make it into praline instead… except it seems to have adhered permanently to the plate. But that’s another challenge for another time.

Anyway, this morning I rose with fire in my eyes and murder in my heart, determined to make said sauce or perish in the attempt. I succeeded. The sauce is velvety, creamy and not at all reminiscent of cough mixture. A large lump of toffee did get stuck to the whisk and refuse to melt back in, but I discarded it rather than risk scorching the batch and all was well.

I have half a mind to write to the author, though. “Wait until the caramel starts to smoke”, forsooth! Who thought that was a bright idea? The kind of guy who considers the acrid tongue-shrivelling taste of burned caramel complex and sophisticated, probably. Like those weedy menus that proudly proclaim “Burned Orange Souffle on a Bed of Wilted Greens and Aged Mushrooms”, trusting your snobbishness will lead you to breathe “How avant-garde!” rather than making pointed remarks about the pig bin.