Wednesday, December 13, 2006

fa la f*&$ f*&# f*&%

One of my new years resolutions is that I'm going to try to shrug off all the little un-truths I tell myself... things like "I *need* these shoes for work.." or "Flying into a cleaning frenzy that turns me into a harpie from hell every Saturday morning is *productive*.." or "I know the Saarinen Womb chairs are wickedly expensive but really its an investment and I *should* take better advantage of my employee discount" Next year, I will realize that I can buy shoes simply because they are fabulous, clean the house or not clean the house, surround myself with beautiful things and not feel at all guilty.

However, one of the hardest internal myths to break is that if I really care about someone, I *must* make them something - at the last minute -preferably utilizing a craft that involves either unintentional bloodletting or 2nd degree burns. Homemade caramels packaged in felted bags are this kind of crappy craft.

The recipe looked dreamy and I loved the thought telling the dearly-loved recipients they were 'fleur de sel' caramels. It sounded so french, so sophisticated. As if french women really sit in their little Parisian pied-a-terre, over a hot stove for an hour coaxing sugar into becoming something it really doesn't want to be.
As if...
Non non non. French women go down the confectionery on the first floor of their building, wink and smile to Antoinne and buy a little box of silky heaven in such an elegant box it seems vulgar to open it.

Moi? I am more freak than french. Twenty dollars worth of salt, cream and butter later I ended up with two pans of caramel with the consistency of raw cookie dough and the smoothness of sandpaper. Nonplussed, I went online, scoured the boards, and read that this is common. Even a single grain of sugar can make all the sugar recrystallize. If this happens re-melting the sugar can often fix the problem.

I took this chirpy advice and remelted the sugar. I stirred the pot for a bloody hour until my triceps hurt, ignored the burning boiling sugar that hurt my hands and did 'quality control' tastings until my teeth hurt from all . In the end, the goop was still closer to shortbread than caramel. I give up.

One question remains.
What am I to do with my little felted bags? Made from the sleeves of thrift store sweaters, they remind me of the beakers I used in middle school chemistry class. Maybe I can use them to make more Christmas Crack...because I've obviously been smoking WAYYY to much.