A few days ago my annual expedition to harpoon a fond childhood memory once again met with failure.
Yes, Grandma Frances, I am still the Captain Ahab to your great, white caramels...(sorry for that pathetic stretch, but I like to reference Moby Dick at least once per decade).
And this time around I'd say I was pretty careful to follow the recipe. But a lack of readily available measuring equipment (who can't simulate the equivalent of a tablespoon??) plus the distracting crossfire of my brothers' candy making disputes may have contributed to the resulting consistency rivalling that of a very soft brie.
Whatever. It was still great fun.
Caroline devised an intricate method for wrapping and twisting the goodies, one that dates back to the ancient Edo era of Japan.
It was part disciplined art form, part street hustler. Half the time I couldn't tell which hand held the prize.
Remind me never to give that child three walnut shells. And my wedding ring.
Ah, it was in the right hand all along!
And this was how we spent the afternoon: wrapping failed yet delectable caramels, snuggling on the couch, watching Julie & Julia, talking about all the things we've made from her cookbook, and listening to my girls tell me how much they would love to live in France.
C'est la vie, indeed.