These are chocolate showpieces. Everything on them is made entirely of chocolate. One day, I want to learn how to make these. Aren’t they beautiful?
And here’s a video of chocolatier Jacques Torres making a showpiece at a demonstration at Harrah’s in Atlantic City. The big payoff comes at the end, so even though it’s sort of long, it’s worth watching all the way through.
Amazing!
I walked into a florist shop with a brilliant idea which I suppose falls under the banner of “marketing.”
The high-concept notion: Sell them candy for resale. After all, Easter is coming, followed by Mother’s Day. It makes sense for florists to sell candies, either separately or included in baskets and other floral arrangements.
I mean, why send customers down the street for a box of sweets or a gift basket when a smart florist can provide it right there and keep the profits?
This particular shop was on the outskirts of L.A.’s largely Orthodox Jewish neighborhood. So naturally, the manager asked if the chocolates were kosher. Imagine her disappointment that they weren’t. Kosher candy, she reasoned, would “fly off the shelf” at her shop.
Any time someone says “fly off the shelf” to me, my ears perk up. So I figured, “How hard could it be to get kosher certification, at least, for my candies and cookies?”
First stop: the internet, to see what actually makes something “kosher.” Among several helpful sites were Kosher Primer, from Tori Avey’s The Shiksa in the Kitchen blog, and this one from the Orthodox Union: How Do I Know It’s Kosher? It has a huge section on meat which, thank goodness, I don’t need to worry about since I haven’t jumped on board with the fad of adding bacon to everything.
The sections on candies and baked goods are very helpful. In fact, they make me think going kosher might be possible, since most of my present ingredients already are kosher, including the chocolate. The utensils used to make the candies and baked goods would also have to be used exclusively in kosher preparation.
This means I couldn’t use them to prepare non-kosher food; I’d need separate implements for making the kosher goods, but making candy doesn’t require a lot of implements, just a few large boiling pans, candy molds, dipping forks and cake pans. Piece ‘a cake!
But I also learned I’d need to use a kosher kitchen if I wanted the official pat on the back from a kosher certification agency. Hmmm…
Next stop: my husband, who knows everyone. “Honey,” I asked without much hope, “do you know anyone at a kosher certification agency?”
I had to pick my jaw up off the floor when he said, “Oh, sure. Reuven Nathanson. I went to elementary school with him. He was in my second grade class. In Cleveland.”
(Psst. Don’t let him know about this, but I ask you: is it normal for a guy to remember everyone in every class he ever took. In Cleveland. And still know how to reach them? Am I the only one who finds this strange? I digress…)
We met Reuven at a coffeehouse in West Hollywood. He’s a rabbi and works for an agency which provides OU Kosher certification. This is different from OK certification. (What’s the difference? I just don’t know.)
Reuven is a great guy — funny, kind, diplomatic and very, very patient with idiots. I know, because I asked some really stupid questions. But I learned a lot from him — about the idea and purpose of kosher in general, and about what I’d need to do in particular to make kosher products. It was fascinating!
There’s a whole other world out there I know nothing about. For example, who knew there are levels of kosher that are increasingly strict? And that the temperature at which food is cooked affects its degree of “Kosher-ness”?
I now know if I want to make kosher candy, I’ll need to use a kosher “dairy” kitchen because some kosher kitchens don’t allow even the presence of dairy products. And you can’t make chocolate without milk products. Well, you can. If you like eating sludge.
After making the candy in a kosher dairy kitchen, I’ll have to call Reuven and get him (or someone from his agency) to certify my products so I can legitimately put the kosher symbol on the packaging.
I don’t know much about the spiritual aspect of keeping kosher, either, although I’m learning that, too. Hanna Geshelin’s article What Jews Do is a good start.
I have a lot to learn. This is going to be fun.
Shalom.
I had to temper chocolate early this morning, then again this afternoon. And it worked perfectly both times. Now, I know the secret. Don’t let this get out:
Music.
My daughter was in a play this weekend. I know, I know — this sounds like a tangent, but bear with me, it’s relevant. The play, Once on This Island, is sort of Caribbean musical version of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid. I saw it four times.
That’s right. Four times. My daughter was in all four performances — one each on Thursday and Friday nights, plus matinee and evening performances on Saturday. It was worth it to see how much fun my kid was having.
Unfortunately, there’s a price to pay: Now, all the show’s songs are stuck on a continuous loop playing inside my head. I hold my hands to my ears and scream, “Get out of my brain!” They laugh at me.
Fortunately, they’re pretty good songs: “Mama Will Provide,” “Pray,” “Ti Moune,” “The Human Heart,” “A Part of Us,” and more.
I’m just lucky the score didn’t consist of the greatest hits of K.C. and the Sunshine Band.
No matter how good the songs are, you might think a loop of show tunes is a bad thing. I sure did. Until this morning. Instead of turning on CNN for the latest disasters in Japan and Libya, I just sang all those songs to myself. Quietly, of course, since it was four in the morning and everyone was asleep. I serenaded myself while melting the chocolate, seeding it, stirring a bit, then stirring some more.
And guess what: it tempered just exactly as it was supposed to! I dipped caramels. I dipped truffles. They came out looking great!
But I ran out of time, so as soon as I got home this afternoon, I tempered some more chocolate so I could dip some shortbread cookies. I was prepared for failure, but once again, I sang those songs, and the chocolate tempered perfectly. That’s twice in one day!
Coincidence? I think not. It’s the songs! That play is magic. The songs are magic. And they work!
Am I crazy? Probably. Did it have anything to do with the music? Probably not, if you want to be entirely rational. But I saw a kids’ play four times in three days, baked 60 dozen cookies at top speed and slept a grand total of eight hours.
So if you want rational, get it from someone else. I’m gonna keep singing.
Another day, another screw up life lesson.
I bet you can guess what I messed up this time. Right. Fondant.
For the record, Fondant is that shiny, hardened, icing-like stuff that makes fancy cakes look and taste so yummy. It’s like a lusciously smooth but brittle coat of armor for desserts.
I wanted to try making some, rather than buying pre-made cans of the stuff at the candy supply store. Not that there’s anything wrong with the store-bought kind. I was just feeling adventurous, since it’s cheaper to make and I could experiment with various flavors.
Also, I’ve discovered there are different kinds of fondant; the kind you use for cakes isn’t the same used in candy centers.
Oh, and you should know it’s pronounced fonn-dahnt in English and fon-dohn in the original French.
The Muscles From Brussels Gag
Already, Barry is making jokes about it. “Oh, didn’t I see him in those action pictures? Jean-Claude Fon-dahnt.” Funny guy.
So I went to the web and found a recipe that got lots of good reviews. I assembled my sugar, cream, butter, milk, vanilla and cream of tartar. (Whatever that is. I keep picturing large Russians in fur-collared uniforms, goose-stepping to the mess hall to demand their Cream of Tartar. Probably what Jean-Claude Fondant would do.)
I followed the directions explicitly, bringing the resulting glop to precisely 236 degrees. Then, as advised, I poured it into a cooled pan and began stirring. The recipe insisted I “work with spatula until fondant creams, then knead with hands until it is very smooth.”
Stirring to Infinity
I remembered reading this might take some time. So I broke out a deck of cards, last Sunday’s crossword and one of Thomas Pynchon’s less-demanding novels, since I was mentally preparing to be at it for awhile. And I let the stirring begin.
By early afternoon, I wasn’t even sure what year it was. My daughter came home from school and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Stirring fondant, my sweet.” She started her homework.
A half hour later she asked, “How long do you have to stir that?”
“I don’t know,” I responded absently, since my brain was now as mushy as the fondant. “Until it starts to get creamy and hard, I think.”
My husband came in and said, “Are you still stirring that?”
A Stirring of Echoes
My daughter finished her homework, finished 5th grade and moved on to middle school. I was still stirring. She went to high school, graduated and left for college. I’d miss her, if I could remember what she looked like.
My husband came in and said, “Are you still stirring that?”
Okay, truth is I stirred for about an hour and got no results. Then this nasty little thought stirred in the back of my mind: Did I heat that to 236 or 232 degrees? I just couldn’t remember.
Well, I stirred. And the thought stirred. Neither of us got anywhere. The fondant never hardened, unlike my resolve to give all this up and try gardening.
The Morning After
I figured I’d stick it in the fridge and see if that helped. By golly, it did. Next morning, it had hardened! I scooped some out, dipped it in chocolate and let it set for the rest of the day. I gave it to my husband to try. He bit into the piece and the fondant, which had liquefied again, ran out of the candy and down his shirt sleeve, laughing at him all the way.
My daughter, who was watching, asked, “Is that what it’s supposed to look like?”
I get that a lot.
This week, I learned something very important: Don’t even think about tempering chocolate in a rainstorm.
Well, not actually in a rainstorm. What I mean is while it’s raining outside.
Here’s what happened:
I was trying to make two kinds of chocolate-covered caramels: milk chocolate and dark chocolate. I was taking a shot at some almond clusters, too, hoping to entice florists and a few other stores into buying them for resale.
It was a rainy Monday afternoon. A good day to stay in and candify.
My Kitchen as Candy’s Room (Apologies to Bruce)
I heated the dark and milk chocolates separately, thinking they’d temper at different times. Then I cut the caramels into 1-inch pieces and chopped some almonds. I wanted everything ready at the precise moment when the chocolate reached the magic temperatures: 90 degrees for the dark, 86 degrees for the milk.
Then I waited, stirring the two bowls of chocolate and zapping each with my nifty laser thermometer (“Phasers on stun, Scottie”) every few minutes to check their progress.
To my surprise–and dismay–the two chocolates were cooling at different rates. It was apparent they’d reach optimum temperature at the same time.
Okay, no problem. My husband was home, so I called him in to help. I tested them for temper. That means I drizzled a thin stream on some parchment paper and waited to see if it would harden.
Now, the Bad News
It didn’t. A few minutes later, when the temperature had dropped a few degrees lower, I tried again. No temper. Okay, so the goo was just being stubborn today. I waited a little longer. Barry went back to whatever guys do when their wives aren’t around.
I waited. And waited. The chocolate never tempered.
In the end, we dipped everything anyway, since I refused to believe this wasn’t going to work. Hey, I’d followed all the rules. It was just a misunderstanding! But alas, The Force (or even the Federation) was not with me.
Less than an hour later, Barry said, “These chocolates look kind of stripey. Did you do that on purpose?”
No, Barry, I didn't do this on purpose.
Grrrrr.
What’s a Girl to Do?
I got on the web. I remembered learning chocolate wouldn’t temper in a hot, humid kitchen. I thought heat was the problem. Not so: it’s both. Chocolate tempers best, I learned from Chocolatier Electronique, between 68 and 70 degrees and with humidity below 50 percent. No wonder my chocolate didn’t temper! It was pouring outside!
Okay, so I’d learned a lesson. But this raised a question: how would I measure the humidity in my kitchen? My thermometer tells me the temperature, but how do you gauge humidity?
Back to the web, where I learned you measure humidity with a handy little gadget called a hygrometer, available at The Home Depot for all of $12. (And why do they insist on calling it THE Home Depot?)
So off I went to The Home Depot, where three different orange-apron-clad shelf stockers I approached had never heard of a hygrometer. They sent me all over the store. I finally tracked it down myself in Gardening, next to the (duh!) thermometers.
On sale for $10.
Hygrometer Heaven
I took it home, plopped in a AA battery and set it on the kitchen table. Voila! It tells me both the temperature and humidity any time I want. Now, I know when it’s safe to try again. But not today: the humidity in the kitchen is 52 percent.
And Barry’s still doing whatever guys do when their wives aren’t around. I don’t trust him for a second. He’s trickier than that chocolate.
Well, they taste good, anyway
Tempering chocolate is tough.
If you want beautiful chocolate, it’s not enough just to melt it. Chocolate needs you to be a kitchen sycophant. You must play to its ego. If necessary, abject humiliation in the form of begging and pleading is perfectly acceptable.
This is because chocolate must go through a process of crystallization in order to get and retain that “I have to eat it!” look. The chocolate in your chocolate bars, or covering your candies, is “tempered.” It stays shiny and breaks with a snap.
But getting chocolate to temper is not easy–at least, not for me. And the consequences of getting it wrong are horrific: Streaky, cloudy chocolate and lost money.
All the books and websites make it sound easy: Just heat the chocolate to a certain temperature. Then cool it to another temperature. Next, reheat to yet another temperature. And voila–your chocolate is tempered and ready to produce lovely, shiny candies!
Liars!
I follow the directions religiously. I heat the chocolate to 113-122 degrees (for semi-sweet). I add bits of unmelted chocolate to cool it, stirring, until the goo dips to 84-85 degrees. Then, I heat it to 89-90 degrees.
It’s not hard to do all this. I just heat the chopped chocolate in the microwave for 30-second bursts until it reaches the desired temp, checking it with a handy little laser thermometer. (Phasers on stun, Scottie.)
Then I stir in bits of chopped chocolate until the mixture cools, continually checking the temp. Next, it’s time to reheat with my nifty heat gun to the desired temp.
And voila! It’s not tempered.
(Say it with me: Kill me now.)
You test it by spreading a drizzle on a piece of parchment paper, waiting to see if it hardens within 5 minutes. (How many times have I asked my husband to wait five minutes until it hardens. But that’s another post.)
My bowl of chocolate-based light sweet crude never does. It shines. It glistens. It does a tap dance across the counter. But does it harden? No.
At the Callebaut chocolate demo I talked about in my last post, I watched Alicia do this effortlessly, on the first try. I can only conclude she has magical powers that she neglected to mention.
I know tempering can be affected by many things: temperature and humidity of the kitchen; both temp and humidity outside; plus a host of other mystery factors. I’ve used three different thermometers to ensure accuracy. I’ve tried it in a metal bowl; a glass bowl; a plastic bowl. I’ve tried stirring with a wooden spoon, a metal spoon, a heat-proof spatula. I’ve had the three witches from Macbeth stir it for me.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
I have to dip some caramels today. That means I have to temper some chocolate. Maybe this time I’ll try checking the position of the moons of Venus.
Okay, so I’m sitting in Surfas, a kitchen supply store in Culver City, the L.A. suburb that really should be considered America’s movie capital (Hollywood got most of the press; much of the actual movie production the last 100 years was in Culver City).
I digress.
So here I am at Surfas, watching an absolutely fascinating demonstration about chocolate by Alicia Boada and Anne Fox from the Callebaut chocolate company. I suddenly begin to understand the full depths of my ignorance. And I feel about two feet tall, or 40-percent of my actual challenged height.
I started a baking business a few months ago and recently began making candy and baked goods. I’m not making much money yet. (Translation: I’m not making any money.) But I’m having a ball. I know I have a lot to learn; I’ve made lots of mistakes and I’m sure I’ll make a lot more.
But sitting there in the demo, I suddenly feel like an impostor. A fake. A total fraud. It hits me: I could study chocolate for 20 years and still not know everything about it. And the room is full of people who’ve spent decades mastering All Things Chocolate. Real professionals. Not people like me, who say one day, “Hey! Let’s make some candy and sell it! It’ll be fun!”
Well, I wallow in my obvious inferiority for a while. And then I sample some of the chocolate they’re passing around. Miraculously, I begin to feel better. Not smarter, mind you: it’s just that chocolate, as we all know, has miraculous healing properties.
Or the secret to self-delusion.
Yes, it’s true: I know next to nothing. Yes, it’s true I am a presumptuous, pitiable amateur. An upstart, to use a lovely Victorian term. Everyone has to start somewhere, so I might as well enjoy it. Thus, the Upstart Startup.
