Candy Land

Okay, so these are the caramels I blogged about, the ones that don't scare me any more, the ones I served at our Christmas party last night.  The ones you all ate - not a one left.  Huge hit.  Happy hosts.  

The best parties are when all the food gets devoured with smiles and requests for recipes, when you actually get to talk to people, and when a few friends linger for the after-party, sending you go to bed completely worn out with a big smile on your face.  And when you wake up to chests and tables laden with hostess gifts, and an email note from a friend, "Oh, I forgot and put chocolate under the tree - please go get it before the dog discovers it."  I was sooooooooo tempted to write back, "Chocolate gone.  Dog dead."  but altho I think wicked thoughts I seldom act on them.  Plus I really like this dog...and this friend.

Bourbon-Sea Salt Caramels

Bon Appétit  | December 2013

yield: makes about 100 caramels

Nonstick vegetable oil spray

2 cups sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup

1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

2 tablespoons bourbon

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Flaky sea salt (such as Maldon)

Special equipment:

A candy thermometer

Lightly coat an 8x8" baking pan with nonstick spray and line with parchment paper, leaving a 2" overhang on 2 sides; spray parchment.

Bring sugar, corn syrup, and 1/2 cup water to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. Cook, swirling pan occasionally, until mixture turns a deep amber color, 8–10 minutes.

Remove pan from heat and whisk in sweetened condensed milk and butter (mixture will bubble vigorously) until smooth. Fit pan with thermometer and return to medium-low heat. Cook, whisking constantly, until thermometer registers 240°F. Remove from heat and whisk in bourbon and kosher salt. Pour into prepared pan; let cool. Sprinkle caramel with sea salt, cut into 3/4" pieces, and wrap individually in parchment paper.

DO AHEAD: Caramels can be made 2 weeks ahead. Store wrapped tightly in plastic in airtight container at room temperature.

Fear and New Year

Things I've Learned This Year

I know, I know, it's not the new year yet, and resolutions are supposed to be for things you'll change next year, but I am starting a new tradition, and I'm inviting you to join me.  I'm celebrating the things I learned, the fears I overcame - this year.   More fun, less guilt than New Year's resolutions.  Invite your friends.


1.  This year I learned the words to Adeste Fidelis - in Latin.  Remember what George Carlin said about this song? *

2.  How to caramelize sugar.  I was okay if there was some butter mixed in, but straight sugar scared me. Now, you would think a girl who makes her own potato chips and butter toffee and the fried chicken from Ad Hoc (two days.  three people. worth every minute.) wouldn't be afraid of much.  You would be wrong.  But I've been making Bourbon Sea Salt Caramels, and I'm not afraid any more.  

3.  Replace things that need replacing, even if they're not worn out. Like the candy thermometer someone (ahem!) scrubbed all that caramelized sugar off...and all the numbers.  Soak, please - don't scrub.  A candy thermometer without numbers may not be worn out, but it's not much use. Squinting at the shadows left by the scrubbed-off numbers, trying to dodge the little pops of blistering hot caramel from the pot, I decided it's time.

And the microplane grater that's dull.  No more skinned knuckles for me.  The spatulas with nicks and dings in the blade (from trying to get the last bits out of the Cuisinart).  The garlic press that is now missing its little plastic clean-out thingie - Ally had a great snack; I have a new garlic press in my future.  

4.  Playing the piano - again.  It was harder than I expected, and I'm glad I'm hanging in.  Come by just before midnight, and most nights you can hear me practicing.  

5.  Don't attend every argument you're invited to.  And as Robert Brandt said, "Life becomes easier when you learn to accept the apology you never got."  I would not have understood last year, but I do now. 

6.  Ask for help.  Accept help that's offered.  Say "Yes, I am awesome." Thank you Karyn.  And thank you to my friends.  I love you.


* George Carlin famously said "Oh Come All Ye Faithful is the only Christmas Carol to successfully combine sex and religion".   Go George!  

Words To Live By

Fight. Love. Live.   The origin of Filoli, the incredible estate on the peninsula.  If you haven't been for a while, go.  For the Christmas extravaganza, for the winter bones.  For tulips and daffodils in the spring. Then join.  Or volunteer, and you too can become (as an old classmate once said) one of the crumbs of the upper crust.

We went to see the house decked out for Christmas.   In the cold winter light the entry was awe inspiring, grand to the point of intimidation.   I wondered what it was like when Lurline Matson Roth lived here...

There were bunnies on the chandeliers:

and carolers on the stairs.  Lots of carolers.

Trees crowded with ornaments, all for sale.  Look for the moose when you come to visit me.  

Hint:  He's not anyplace you'd expect.  Keep looking.  Have another drink.  And no, he's not in a cupboard.  Or closet.  With apologies to those who are.

Penguins and polar bears, and stunning black and white ribbons. Sold out, of course.  If you see this ribbon for sale, call me.

Black is the new black.  With apologies to orange.

There were tables laden with candles and silver, ornaments and objects of desire.

And in the garden, a peacock named Percy.  

When I was growing up (and up and up, but that's another story) White Gate Farm was still a farm.  With sheep, and peacocks as guard dogs - no coyote ever got past them.  We used to hitch Campy, the neighbor's pony, to his circus cart with a red leather seat, and ride up the long gravel drive to ask if we could pick up peacock feathers.  Mrs Donohue, always pale and wan in a housecoat, alway gracious, always said yes.

We would listen to the peacocks sound the alarm, and being a wicked mimic I learned to imitate their cries.  So when the docent said Percy was lonely and in search of a mate, I asked if I could talk to him.  I got a weird look, and a "You could try...." Resounding vote of No Confidence.  Wrong thing to do to me.

So I tipped back my head and called, in my best peacock, "Help!" which is pretty much what peacock sounds like if you're not a peacock.  And much to the docent's surprise, Percy perked up and came looking for me.  With a gleam in his eye.  

Much later, as we left the check-out area loaded down with bags and boxes, there was a group of docents taking a break, drinking tea and basking in the weak winter sun.  And I heard a familiar docent-y voice say to his friends "Say, did you know she speaks peacock?"

So helpful for those of you who've been trying to figure out what language I speak.

The Old Curiosity Shop, or Fall Flowers at Loot

It's impossible to pass these windows without stopping - they pull you in.  Skinny young men with fierce looking dogs, old men bundled in overcoats - they all stop to look.  They peer at the antique chairs piled with ornaments, at the orange Christmas tree made of piled-up Hermes boxes.  At pale chests covered  with blue and white china. 

They wander in and turn around in amazement.  They move toward a gilded pine cone, an old hunting lamp.  A framed print of  a brightly colored bird, a painting of an old cottage in a richly gilded frame.

There are shells crusted in jewels, branches dangling bright ornaments.

And there is a ceiling festooned with whimsey.  I'm going to Loot.  

See you there.  

The Thanksgiving Guests

Worried about her absentmindedness sliding into Alzheimer's, the family kept an eye on her.  Sometimes she seemed fine, sometimes confused about where she was, or why she was there.  But she was still mostly lucid, just forgetful.

Since it was Thanksgiving there were plenty of family members to help keep track, but in the kerfuffle of getting the turkey carved and the cranberries sauced, the sweet potatoes sweetened and the green beans greened, it was all hands on deck and there was no one to watch her.

Tim, ever resourceful, led her to a large framed photo in the bookcase of the whole family at last summer's reunion at the lake, thinking it would keep her entertained.  And she seemed happy, talking away.  

When the turkey was carved and the dinner on the table she was still there, still chatting briskly away.  Concerned heads peeked around the dining room door, then retreated to the kitchen to discuss in whispers what to do.  Finally, concerned over both the rapidly cooling dinner and the lively one-sided conversation, Tim walked up and tipped the photo face down on the bookshelf.   "Come on mom, let's eat."

She looked brightly up at Tim and said "Thank Goodness!  I thought they'd never leave!"

There are moments of grace in the midst of the worst times.  But I know this: I want to go with all my marbles, not confused and afraid.  I'm not sure I have much choice, but I have good genes and I pay attention to what the researchers say might be helpful. Covering all the bases.

Do math in your head.  There's no one watching, and there's no test.  So what if you get it wrong?  Eventually you'll get it right.  

Figure out the tip without using your phone (hint: double the amount of the bill, then drop a zero.  That's twenty percent.  Don't be cheap.)

Take a foreign language, and be prepared to feel ridiculous.  Learn to laugh at your self.  Don't quit.  So what if you're the worst in the class?  It's not going to affect your GPA.  

Try the jumble, work a crossword (another hint: they get easier). Play the piano, play the kazoo.  Carry a small notebook and write down things that make you smile, things that make you think. Carry a sketchbook.  Write a story.  Start a blog. Write letters to your friends.   Do something to stretch your mind.  Push the envelope.  Push back.  

A Bigger Box

One hot summer day (remember those?) a crowd of neighborhood kids rang my doorbell.  They were so excited they writhed on the doorstep, flowing over each other with excitement.

"There's a dead bird!  On the neighbors' lawn!"  Shrill voices rose and fell, talking over each other and arguing the finer points of dead bird-ism.

I'm not sure if I remember what it's like to be a kid, or if I am still that same person I was as a kid, but I have lots of friends in single digits (and some friends nearing triple digits, but that's another story). These kids knew something needed to be done, and they knew where to come.

"We need to bury it!  We need a box!"  There is no urgency like the urgency of a child.  

In the garage, on top of the fridge was a pile of boxes I had been saving to wrap presents.  I picked out a box big enough to hold four truffles.  Or one bird.  Or so I thought. 

"Nope.  Not big enough."  I looked around - hyperbole is as common as skinned knees among the under-ten set.  All heads were nodding, all faces were solemn.  Okay, a bigger box.

I picked out another box, this one half the size of a shoebox. Nope. My Jimmy Choo shoe box?  Still too small. Really?  But they finally selected a bigger shoe box, the one Wally's sneakers came in.

I headed for Maneesha's lawn thinking pteryodactyl.  I mean, how big can a dead bird be?  We live in the suburbs, not the north woods, and I am used to seeing goldfinches at my feeder, and shy bushtits flitting away when I open the back door.  Little birds, not birds the size of men's sneakers.

It was a pigeon, not recently dead, with gashes from a hawk or other bigger meat-eating bird (and remember that when you look at that turkey).  Wasps were already swarming around.  And it was big.  Definitely sneaker size.  

Being a veteran of several prior dead bird adventures I had brought a pair of sturdy leather gloves.  I mean if we're worried about salmonella in our supermarket chicken, just think what's winging around with the pigeons.  Especially the dead ones.

Freaked out by the wasps, and egged on by each other's screaming, the decibels rose to Hitchcock film  level as I dropped the buzzing pigeon in the box and smacked on the lid.  We sat down and had an impromptu session on the benefits of nature's scavengers, the garbage collectors of the natural world, and on how annoying screaming is to everyone except the person screaming.  Then it was off to find a burial site.

So where to bury a slightly decomposed pigeon?  "The most beautiful place in the world" said Daisy.  Nods all around.  And since Agra and the Taj Mahal were too far away, where would they recommend?

"Your Garden!" they all yelled.  So a dozen kids swarmed my garden like wasps on a dead pigeon, looking for the perfect Final Resting Place.  They finally agreed on a spot just below a deep blue hydrangea, shaded by an ancient buckeye.  I dug a big hole, stuck in the box, and started covering it.

"Wait!" Daisy screamed.  "We need a funeral."  Beyond my pay grade.  Especially a pigeon funeral.  I mean, what do you say?  Sorry you're dead but at least now you can't crap on my head?  Or whirl into flight right in front of me and scare the crap out of me?  

"He needs a name.  We can't have a funeral without a name."  There went my idea for the Tomb of the Unknown Pigeon.  Oh well.

"Fluffy.  His name is Fluffy."  With apologies to bunnies everywhere, we said goodbye and good luck to Fluffy the Pigeon, tucked him in under the hydrangea deeply enough to discourage the raccoons, shed a few tears, and then all trooped off for cookies.  It's not a real funeral unless there is food.

As I'm going thru my stack of boxes looking for the right size for the gift I'm wrapping, I think of that pigeon.  And I cannot look at a naked bird (think turkey here) without thinking of the avian funeral.

There is a book, now long out of print, called Blinkie The Friendly Hen.  By Jeffrey Vallance, an artist who pushes the envelope.  It is truly food for thought.  But you might want to wait until after Thanksgiving.

Important Safety Tip

So my mom learned something today - no matter how fancy your umbrella, no matter how hard it's raining...

it's important to open it outside the car.  

It's also important to laugh.  Thanks mommy.  I have so much fun with you!