Chocolate Covered Cherries, Part 2

It's a great day to keep making our candied cherries. You've got the fondant ready, right? If not, check it out here. It's fairly easy to make. Just don't substitute the packaged stuff for icings and frostings.

In fact, don't willy-nilly substitute much in tested recipes, especially in baking. A little here and there is fine. (Readers of this blog have repeatedly commented on successful substitutions to these recipes--and with good reason, too.) But too much and disaster lurks.

I once spent a whole evening teaching a rather hapless cook how to make a pie crust so she could take pies to work for a company function. We did it over and over again. I left her confident of her skill. I called her later that week to ask her how it went. "Terrible," she said. "Your recipe doesn't work."

Um, no. I'm a Southerner. Reconstructed, but still. . . . Listen, I KNOW pie crusts. My recipe is my grandmother's and my mother's. Don't even think about questioning it.

So I questioned her. Turns out, she'd run out of flour and then substituted corn starch.

"They're both white," she reasoned, still trying to pin it on me.

Sigh.

OK, off to making the cherries.

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Chocolate Covered Cherries, Part 1

Yep, you read that title right. In honor of the holidays--or for whatever reason you'd make these, like "it's Monday and raining"--here are the classic candies, a fine finish to any meal.

We're going to start by making a fondant. Ready?

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Nougat

If you had to divide the world between the givers and the takers, Bruce is solidly in the former camp. He can't feed you enough, offer you enough, make you feel comfortable enough.

Me, too, but differently. I don't haul out the platters of food but I've got my own ways. Quieter. And you know what? Better two givers in a relationship than a giver and a taker. (Maybe also better two takers than a giver/taker set-up, although I don't know about that. Boy, I see those giver/taker relationships--and they're often rough. Very.)

I guess this nougat represents Bruce's giving side. He made it for friends' wedding. Hundreds of pieces, all sealed up and twisted shut in little wax paper wrappers. The candies were chewy, nutty, and delicious. Party favors, as it were, for after dinner. Just because he wanted to.

I've saved it for last in this month of candy-making on the blog. Mostly because it's the best.

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Caramels

One of the great things about writing THE ULTIMATE CANDY BOOK--perhaps as some sort of redress for the dentist bills--was the drop-jawed kudos. Oh, I don't mean we didn't have failures while we were recipe-testing. Of course. But once a recipe succeeded and we presented some friend with a little bag of wrapped candy, he or she was flummoxed--and that goes for the most squinty-eyed of the hyper-foodie set. You know the type: ever ready with a lecture on how you must eat lettuce pulled out of the ground within the last two hours and rinsed with water at 78F. "You used seventy-seven degree water? What were you thinking?"

Listen, I've got nothing for the current crop of know-nothing idiots pretending to be politicians in DC. I'm certainly not trying to validate ignorance. Just outplay it. And nobody outplays a wannabe fetishist like a more serious one. You can play at leather pants until you meet someone in leather chaps. And you can play at being a foodie until you meet someone who makes candy at home.

So I urge you to outfetish the best of 'em and try these buttery caramels. They're a little harder than the squishy ones available commercially. More old-fashioned. They melt on your tongue, turning soft and luscious. Sticky, too. Make these today and that dental appointment tomorrow.

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White Chocolate Bark

White chocolate is a thing of beauty--although you wouldn't know it from so much of the stuff that's out there. First off, there's all that imitation junk, pretending to be white chocolate: basically sweetened Crisco with vanilla. Or more accurately, hydrogenated shortening and some flavorings. Really, what's the point?

White chocolate should be cocoa butter, the fat from the cacao pod--pure and simple. Except it's often not. Even the stuff that's sold as pure cocoa butter is often chemically deodorized. Why? Because it's a fat. And fat's go rancid. So the cocoa butter is chemically cleaned up. And thus loses most of its taste.

That said, there are non-deodorized, pure versions of white chocolate. And let me tell you: taken as a whole they're a revelation with deep hints of the original cacao; as well as nutty, even bitter overtone; all combined with velvety, buttery cocoa butter, sweetened of course, and very creamy. A pure delight. If you want to know more, check out El Rey Chocolates here. Their white chocolate is simply fantastic--and about as much real food as you can get.

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Chocolate Bark

Ours is a mixed marriage. In so many ways. For one thing, I get one of these:

And he gets this:

It's what's known in our house as a deconstructed menorah. Every year, we put up eight smaller candles and one large candle, all to celebrate Hanukkah. Basically, it means I've worked my life out to get presents almost every day in December. And people say writers can't figure out how to live in the real world!

But Bruce and I are mixed in other ways. Some fairly simple. I balance the check book. He tends to go by feel. And others more shameful. He loves chocolate--and I don't care if I ever eat it again.

OK, don't judge me. I should have said that I used to be indifferent to chocolate. When I met Bruce, I thought chocolate was a big "meh." Then he took me to Maison du Chocolat in New York City. I had one of the earl grey truffles. Holy cow. What did I know, a Texas boy who thought Cadbury eggs were haute cuisine?

Anyway, now I'm into chocolate. Isn't it funny how a relationship can morph you? I mean: chocolate, me, happy. It was once impossible math. Now it makes sense. I'm sure it's one step on the road to looking like Bruce. You know, those old couples who look alike. They buy matching running suits just to emphasize the obvious. Are we there yet? (Now if I can only grow another half a foot.)

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Lemon Drops

I guess I've been saving these candies back because I love them so much. Lollipops and the rest are all well and good but there's something about these old-fashioned drops that just scream "home."

Not that my mother made them when I was growing up. Notions of home are often matters of the imagination. Not that I had a bad childhood. I mean, there was the imminent threat of the rapture, so I kept waiting for my feet to leave the ground. It played heck with any attempts I made at basketball or the high jump. (Believe me, all really, really futile. I preferred Bach. I was a strange child.) But otherwise, mine was the typical, early '70s childhood. Huckapoo, anyone?

Still, when we think of "home," we often think of what should be, or could be, or ought to have been, rather than what was. Home is really the activities that happen in it: the chores, the cleaning, the meals, the fix-ups, the dinner parties, the illnesses. Mostly, it's not something that happens to you, but you to it.

But then there are other things, ineffable things, more imagined than real--except when in fact they become real in some way. Then imagination matches up with "what is"--and there's a gorgeous feeling that all's right with the world.

Like with lemon drops. Because if you make them, all will be indeed.

First off, you need candy molds. There are two kinds. You can choose the round ones to make little lemon balls. They look something like this:

Or you can have the square mesh molds. You have to put these together like little fence rails, all interconnected. They make candies sort of like Jolly Ranchers. They look something like this:

Set them up and lightly grease them with nonstick spray. Again, they're OK if they're set on granite or marble or something that can take the heat. Otherwise, set them up on a wooden cutting board (plastic can melt) or on a turned-upside-down baking sheet.

Combine 1 cup sugar, 1/2 cup water, and a few drops of yellow food coloring in a medium saucepan set over medium-high heat. Stir until the sugar has dissolved--then leave the thing along while it comes to a full boil.

Want more sour pop from the candies? Add 1/8 teaspoon citric acid and stir well until it too has dissolved. Citric acid is the white powdery stuff on the surface of packaged sour candies. You can get it from candy-making suppliers, whether online or in their brick-and-mortar outlets.

Clip a candy thermometer to the inside of the pan and continue boiling until the temperature registers 300F.

We've been talking a lot about temperatures on the blog. There are four basic ones for candy-making: 240F for soft ball, 248F for firm ball, 272F for soft crack, and 300F for hard crack. These temperatures have to do not so much with how hot the mixture is (although they do) but with how much water has been boiled off, leaving the sugar to begin its temperature ascent into the stratosphere. Basically, they indicate a residual moisture content which indicates how chewy or crunchy the final product will be. More moisture, less crunch. Thus, soft and firm ball settings will give you chewy candies; soft and hard crack will give you intense crunch.

Once the thing's reached 300F, remove the pan from the heat and let the temperature fall back to 270F. Now stir in 1 teaspoon lemon oil or lemon extract.

Pour the hot syrup into the prepared molds and then let them cool for at least 20 minutes before you begin to open the molds or break up the little rectangles.

One more thing: you should wrap each one in a candy-wrapper, again available from those suppliers. If you don't, they'll end up like your grandmother's candy: one fused ball in a candy dish. Ambient humidity plays havoc with candy and hair. Your grandmother's hair was the way it was because her candy was the way it was. Life balances out. Sometimes. Especially at home.

Lollipops

When Bruce and I started out in this business eleven years ago, we quickly reached that dreaded moment when we didn't have two nickels to rub together. Between us.

Maybe you know that moment (although I hope you don't): take a cash advance on one credit card to pay off a bit of another. Then try to forget about the next month for a few days.

Let's just say the holidays were pretty slim that year. We'd gotten a left-over tree from a holiday concert at which we'd sung. And we figured we had a budget of about $20 to decorate it. For lights and ornaments.

With the tiny apartment completely rearranged and the tree in place, I went down to the corner hardware store. It was typical New York: dusty, cluttered, and run by an eighty-something Russian man and his hulking, middle-aged son who swept the floors with a straw-bald broom. There were no prices on anything. You walked up to the counter where the old man conjured an amount on the spot. And rarely a round number. "Four fifty-three," he'd say for a box of nails. No tax, by the way. It was just an all-inclusive price out of the air.

That day, I approached him with a few packages of Christmas lights and my twenty-dollar bill. I had no idea what to expect.

"Sixteen twenty-seven," he said.

I had enough left over for ornaments!

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Marshmallows

If there's this much mess, if you've dirtied ten things all over the kitchen counters, if you're completely coated in sugar like some little old British matron on Boxing Day, then it must be time for marshmallows.

Listen, the rewards outweigh the clean-up: light, airy pillows of nothingness, sweet and creamy. Heaven in hot chocolate--but pretty darn fine on their own.

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Popcorn Brittle

Welcome to a month of candy-making on the REAL FOOD HAS CURVES blog! All through December, Bruce will be doing his sugar magic, as per The Ultimate Candy Book. I'll be providing the color commentary. And no, we don't have a cross-promotion deal with the American Dental Association. If there's one thing I learned growing up in stand-on-your-own-two-feet Texas, it's this: you take care of your bridge work and I'll take care of mine.

Candy. Yum. But isn't that difficult? you might ask.

Funny you should ask. Not at all. Provided you have the proper equipment. That is, a candy thermometer. You can't make candy without one. Don't even try. Would you go to war without a gun?

Popcorn brittle is a real favorite at our house. It's like peanut brittle, except Bruce has swapped out popcorn for the peanuts, thereby turning it into a (sort of) healthy treat. OK, healthy-ish. OK, not even that, much to my fat hips' damnation. Just leave me to my delusions. I'll leave you to a homemade candy that's like Cracker Jacks but without the cheap, plastic ring. Although you can put one in if you want. What you do in the privacy of your own home is your own business. That's something else I learned in Texas. At least, that's the way it used to be down there. I understand these days they're installing video cameras in every bedroom.

First, you need about 6 cups popped popcorn. Air-popped is best. Not as greasy. I mean, butter is a beverage, but come on: have some dignity. Once you've got it popped, grab it up by handfuls and crush it into smaller bits. It'll collapse down to about 3 cups or so. But more is better. Within reason. (Insert obligatory off-color joke here.)

Lay a large silicone baking mat (or two together as Bruce did) on your work surface--IF it's granite or can otherwise take the heat. If not, lay the mat (or mats) on turned-upside-down baking sheets (that way, the heat doesn't transfer directly to the laminate, forcing you to get granite counters before you want to). Don't have any silicone baking mats? Then lightly butter a couple baking sheets--but be careful of that transferring heat thing.

No matter what else you do, lightly butter a rolling pin and set it aside.

On to the candy. Mix 1 1/2 cups granulated white sugar, 6 tablespoons light corn syrup, and 1/4 cup water in a medium saucepan. Bruce uses a fancy, all-copper pan, designed for candy-making. In truth, any will do. Sheesh, men and their tools. I tire of admiring the fancy ones.

Stir the mixture over medium-high heat until the sugar dissolves. It'll happen quite quickly, usually in less than a minute. Then clip a candy thermometer to the inside of the pan and continue heating undisturbed until the temperature reaches 270F, about 10 minutes. But there's no real way to time it out. This is chemistry, kids. The whole shtick is based on ambient temperature, air pressure, and humidity. Weren't you paying attention in 11th grade?

Neither was I. Just don't step away. Watch. And if you've got any kids or pets, keep them from getting underfoot. After all, you're taking the stuff up to temperatures way hotter than the boiling point of water.

Once the mixture hits 270F, stir in 3 tablespoons molasses and 1 tablespoon unsalted butter. The mess will roil furiously, like Southern Baptist suddenly among Methodists. But fear not! Just stir it--Bruce uses his sturdy thermometer--until it calms down.

Now continue heating, stirring once in a while, until the temperature hits 290F. This will go faster, maybe just a couple minutes.

The minute the mixture hits 290F, take the pan off the heat and stir in 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Why the baking soda? Because it alters the ph to help the candy set. See, this really is chemistry. Plus, as you'll see, the stuff will really froth and foam. That added air will create a fantastic, light, lacy crunch.

You'll also notice that the consistency changes dramatically. Without delay, stir in all the popcorn with a wooden spoon.

While still as hot as Lucifer's breath, pour the mixture out onto the prepared surface and use the greased rolling pin to roll it out to about 1/4-inch thickness. Then set it aside for 1 hour before breaking it up into little bits that you can store in tins, containers, or cellophane bags.

See, that wasn't so tough. You've got it down. It's all about the thermometer. And not getting burned. So you're ready to move on to something more complicated. Like marshmallows, up next on the blog.