I found my Christmas spirit cooking caramel in the kitchen at midnight.
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For the past three years I have committed to making chewy caramels with salted peanuts for family and friends who have a soft spot for the festive fudge.
I dig out a candy thermometer for its single yearly use before I pull on a long-sleeved cotton shirt and protective eyewear. It’s too hot for this get-up in December but it makes more sense when you see me work.
The recipe looks easy on paper. And sweet. 1.1kg of white sugar kind of sweet. To the tonne of sugar, I add 1.125 litres of cream, 1 cup of golden syrup and 100 grams of unsalted butter. The idea is to simply stir until the sugar thermometer reaches 122 degrees Celsius, in about 20-25 minutes.
My first batch in December 2013 went something like this:
After eight minutes of stirring: Mixture looks promising. 108 degrees.
After 16 minutes of stirring: Mixture looks the same. My arm is sore. 109 degrees.
After 24 minutes of stirring: Mixture looks like Mount Vesuvius. I try NOT stirring it but it bubbles over. My arm is positively aching; I’m sweating now too. 110 degrees.
After 60 minutes of stirring: Mixture looks genuinely dangerous and it’s splashing me. I worry it will spontaneously combust but I don’t have a free hand to Google it. I consider abandoning the mission but instead I remove about one-third of the mixture from the pot with a soup ladle. It’s 12.30am and I am too emotionally spent to cry when my husband walks in the door from work. My arm is killing me. Still 115 degrees. “Please help STIR!” I weep. We share the last half-hour until the mixture reaches 122 degrees.
Sleep-deprived, I pour two trays of caramel and head to bed, comfortable in the knowledge I will never again in my life make this toffee. Ever. I dream everyone who eats the chewy caramels with salted peanuts feels suddenly second-rate and drained of any goodwill; like they're emotionally plugged into my near meltdown. If you have seen Chocolat you will know what I mean.
I consider not handing out the caramels but then 1.1kg of sugar all to myself sounds like a recipe for disaster! I cut, wrap and bag the toffees in green and white striped gift bags. The depleted mixture still makes oodles of caramels; enough for family, friends, work colleagues and neighbours.
Unfortunately, the caramels go down a treat with EVERYONE.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say.
“I can never make them ever again. I’m happy to give you the recipe, but I wouldn’t recommend trying it!”
Then my neighbour of Eastern European descent, who is a great cook herself and has never commended me on my cookery, says: “The caramels were very good!”
This is a compliment of the highest order from the lady who kept the street fed with homemade treats and donuts for decades.
Last year when I gave her some gingerbread mid-December she asked me when I’d be making the caramel. She even gave me her neatly-folded green and white striped bag from the year before ready for a refill.
I reluctantly made chewy caramels with salted peanuts at the 11th hour of the festive season again last year, once the kids were tucked up tight in bed and out of cursing range.
I wrapped and bagged the caramels for our neighbour, friends, workmates and family.
“Delicious!” they all said.
I figure I’m stuck with the toffee for the foreseeable future.
Warning: This column may contain a foodie fruit-loop and traces of nuts.