cooking

Liqueur-filled Easter eggs—beyond my talents and then some

My Fellow Inebriates,

The success of any project depends on three factors:

At first, making our own liqueur-filled Easter eggs seemed like an ingenious idea. We have:

Time—What the hell else does my mum have to do? (Ouch! Has someone ever taken their fingernail and flicked you on the ass? Ouch!) To rephrase: she’s home all day with a four-year-old who needs to be constantly engaged and who would find DIY Easter eggs delightful (if you ignore the booze component). Check.

Resources—My mum is a fiend for and hoarder of chocolate. If she hasn’t already reallocated valuable grocery/booze funds for chocolate, she can be persuaded to invest in some. Besides, her ass requests it. (Owie!) As for the necessary booze, I can get my dad to buy it; he loves going to the liquor store. Check.

Talent—Supposedly, when it comes to making desserts, my mother knows her shit. And she’s had a lot of practice managing four-year-olds in the kitchen. Check.

So I was optimistic, my fellow inebriates. By Easter we could have liqueur-filled eggs!

But my parents were hesitant. They questioned how liquor really fit into our Sunday morning Easter egg hunt with the kids. They said they didn’t really care for liqueur chocolates. They said I was being a nuisance.

And suddenly my project triangle looked like this:

I felt my own optimism dwindling. But oh well. Nothing for it but to dive in. How the hell do you make liqueur-filled chocolates anyway?

According to the most comprehensive instructions I could find, you need a lot of equipment, including:

  • a scale that can measure to the gram
  • an instant-read digital thermometer
  • two 9”x13” baking dishes
  • a metal mesh strainer/sifter
  • a silicone pastry brush
  • four to eight boxes of cornstarch (!!)

OMG! Now our triangle looks like this:

Yes, that’s my mum’s finger.

I’ve always wondered how they get fillings into chocolates. Cadbury has been milking the Caramilk Secret campaign for years. Do they:

  • freeze the filling and then coat it with chocolate?
  • create the chocolate molds in two halves, pour the filling in, and seal the halves together?
  • somehow create hollow chocolate shapes and then inject the filling in?

None of the above, although Cadbury engineers considered the first option, only to dismiss it because it was too expensive and time-consuming. Instead (are you ready for this?) they pour the chocolate into a mold, then add squares of solid caramel, to which they then add a natural enzyme that converts it to a liquid, by which time they’ve already sealed it in with a final layer of chocolate.

Wow! I’d find that really interesting if the filling were booze instead of caramel. But it’s irrelevant to the manufacture of liqueur-filled chocolates.

Back to the ingredient list. You may be wondering what the hell all that cornstarch is for. According to  the instructions, you have to dry it out thoroughly, then make a big bed of it, then use objects to make indentations in it—in our case, Easter-egg shaped cavities. Which means we also need to buy an Easter egg shape.

This is fast becoming a drain on our alcohol fund.

Okay, so you make your shapes in the cornstarch. (Note: no open flame near the cornstarch. It can make fireballs.)

That cornstarch is going to go everywhere. If I get near it I’ll look like Cocaine Bear. Just a little less fierce.

But the next part is even scarier for a small, flammable bear. Next we need to use a saucepan to cook sugar to a specific temperature (holy shit, the tolerance is, like, 3 degrees; we are totally gonna mess this up). Then, once the mercury’s hit that ultra-specific line on the candy thermometer my mum says she bloody well isn’t going to buy, THEN, hallelujah, we can add the liquor. Then we have to stir it at the perfect pace or risk inducing crystallization. OMG! Did I mention we’re going to mess this up?

At this point we should be beside ourselves with anxiety. We’ll need to fend off an eager four-year-old from the stovetop part of it and, at that critical period of temperature measurement, find some other source of entertainment for her, all the while covered with white powder (at which point a cop will probably knock on the door to bestow parking tickets on us, misjudge the situation and bust us for possession). BUT, assuming we make it to this point, now we have to fill the molds with our mixture.

THEN we have to sift cornstarch over the candies (or just shake it off our bodies onto them). And THEN we have to wait 3-5 hours. OMFG!! Did I mention there’s a four-year-old in the kitchen? What do you think she’ll say when we tell her we have to wait 3-5 hours? How many freaking times can she watch Tangled?

Okay, so assuming we survive all that, THEN we have to flip this mess over and leave it overnight.

The next morning we can pull the candies out of the cornstarch and coat them with chocolate.

Photo: Steven Joyce

Up against this recipe, our small resources, limited time, and minuscule talent come up short. My mum says I’m on my own—there’s no goddamn way she’s going to make liqueur-filled Easter eggs. Ever. She says I can damn well get one of those big Nestle eggs, jettison the Smarties from inside and fill the whole thing up with Laguvulin, and good luck.

Sounds like a plan.

 

Incorporating alcohol into your Mardi Gras feast

My Fellow Inebriates,

It’s a no-brainer to write about pancakes today. My mum is whipping some questionable ones up right now for the kids and probably asking herself if she could get away with feeding them pancakes all day instead of stepping up and providing the nutritional diversity that parents typically do.

Solid foods don’t do it for me, but syrup is another story—when it contains rum. Here’s what my mum isn’t doing for the kids this morning (just in case Child Services is reading this):

  • Pancakes (you know, throw a bunch of flour, milk and stuff together)
  • 2 cups maple syrup (we just have the fake stuff but it will work)
  • ¼ butter
  • ¼ rum

Melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the syrup and stir until the mixture is hot. Then [IMPORANT] remove from heat BEFORE adding the rum. You do NOT want any alcohol to burn off.

In fact, if you are concerned about alcohol burning off, you should add MORE rum.

In fact, if you are REALLY concerned about alcohol burning off, you should forgo the syrup/butter step and just POUR RUM on your pancakes.

And if you are EVEN MORE concerned about alcohol burning off, you should just forget about the pancakes and drink the rum. While contemplating some art.

By Dan Lacey: Hoda Kotb and Kathie Lee Gifford wrestle nude, on a pancake

GRAY FOX CHARDONNAY (2010)—choice of sociopaths

My Fellow Inebriates,

Last year my mum caused me spasms of horror by pouring a bottle of Henkell Trocken over the roasting Christmas turkey. (Henkell Trocken is really not for that, people—it’s citrusy and dry with good acidity.) I died inside when she did that, so this year she had a little mercy on me and opted for a dirt-cheap bottle of chardonnay instead.

Gobbling up a hand

I did try to persuade her not to do it at all. But my mother can be very cutting. Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “Sometimes I look at you and suspect you’re inanimate.” Then she opened the oven and poured a bottle of GRAY FOX chardonnay all over the bird.

I did get a small glass before the culinary sacrifice. But I wasn’t optimistic; $6.99 is just about as cheap as wine gets at my local booze shop, and at that price I expect a tastebud offensive, a chorus of plonky mismatched notes with manure and hell-knows-what-else in the background.

So it was a relief to find that GRAY FOX chardonnay tastes like…white grape juice. Really.

With orchard fruitiness dominating the nose and very little of the excessive oak that’s typical of a try-hard California chardonnay, GRAY FOX qualifies as mostly harmless. It won’t make you retch, nor will it appeal to you with complexity and butteriness. At 12% alcohol it sure kicks Welch’s Grape Juice’s ass, yet it seems like too much of a kissing cousin to that kid-friendly beverage. Forgive me, but it doesn’t taste done. Now, you guys know I’m an idiot with a furry mouth and not a ghost of an oenophile’s qualifications, but this wine tastes like it needed to ferment a little longer. It’s grapey, and I’m not sure how intentional that was on the part of the vintner.

I told my mum GRAY FOX would make a good gateway wine for children, only to get the obligatory reminder that I mustn’t encourage irresponsible drinking. So I’ll put it this way: Kids would really like this wine, but don’t give it to them.

But don’t throw it all over a turkey either—OMG, what a waste of alcohol. The fact that my mum thought it made good gravy doesn’t make it okay. But when a sociopathic hausfrau covered in giblets and poultry grease seizes a wine bottle, you just have to let her do her thing.