J. R. Books

It was Christmas time, the snow was softly floating down from high, think Thomas Kinkade, and I had found a recipe that looked inviting: Nut Rocha. Chocolate and toffee with nuts on top that you snapped apart once it was set.

This is the true story of what NOT to do.

The recipe clearly called for a three- quart pan which I could not find although I was sure we had one. There didn’t look to be that much in the way of ingredients. Surely the one quart pan that I did have would work just as well.

It was all downhill from here once I made this judgement call.

The mixture boiled over! Thinking quickly, I decided that since the rimmed cookie sheet was ready (yes, I did think ahead), spillage would just go there even though it hadn’t hit the desired temperature of 290 degrees. And really, how necessary was that little tidbit? Anybody could see it was hot. Stir, boil over, dump onto sheet, stir, boil over, dump unto sheet, stir . . . you get the drift.

The candy thermometer must be broken. It hasn’t moved past 225 degrees and I am sure that I am hotter than this myself. Some of the mixture has run down the outside of the pan onto the burner and stove top. Meaning: smoke in the house! I open the window to the now raging snowstorm outside.

Still stuck at 225 degrees. The cookie sheet has buckled under the heat causing everything to run to one corner. It has spilled onto the counter, down the cupboards, and to the floor; trying its best to continue its escape by way of the heat duct.

Loss: 50% of the Nut Rocha. Hey, at least all of it is now out of the pan and onto the cookie sheet. The hard part is done.

Let me backtrack a little to say that earlier in the week my husband Bill and I found the trash can of my dreams. I have needed one that you can step on so that I can bake, throw things away and not touch the garbage can. We found one that ran on batteries. Pass your hand over it, it pops open, pass your hand a second time over it, it closes. It worked great all week.

I grab paper towels, scoop up as much as I can of the confection, carry it to the garbage can and pass my hand over. Nothing. Pass my hand over. Nothing. The contents are hot, oozing out between my fingers and dripping onto the garbage can, pass my hand—forget it! I throw it all in the ‘papers only’ receptacle (we’re recyclers).

Please do not be fooled by this calm telling of my story. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am doing the full array of yelling, screaming, and swearing. While Bill, sitting in his recliner in the living room, reading a book says serenely, “How I hate when you get in these moods.”

I clean up the counter, cupboards, and floor and then proceed to the living room to unload on Bill what I think. He has a lot of nerve. It’s while I’m talking to him that it suddenly dawns on me: the Nut Rocha is to sit for five minutes at which time the chocolate chips are put on top so that the heat can melt them. Then I can nicely spread them across and finally add the nuts. It’s been at least 15 minutes!

I go running back to the kitchen, round the corner, only to discover that my cleaning of the floor with paper towels was unsuccessful. My feet go flying out from under me as I hit melted butter, corn syrup and sugar residue. I instinctively grab for whatever is near to catch myself: the baker’s rack. It doesn’t save me. I land flat on my back on the floor (picture a gingerbread man with no smile). Everything from said rack comes raining down on me: spices, flour, sugar, utensils, kitchen accessories, bowls, everything.

Bill makes a comment about how my cleaning skills are not the best. As an afterthought he wondered, did I want some help?

“NNNNOOOOO!” This is no longer a Thomas Kinkade moment but an all-out version of Munch’s ‘The Scream.’ Maybe I posed for it in another life.

I use my Swiffer, plus mop and dish soap. I get on my hands and knees and run paper towels all around. Test it with my hand. It’s clean and no longer slippery. With the filthy paper towels in one hand, I pull myself up on the counter not realizing that the cookie sheet is right there, and the towel is partially in it.

After what I’ve been through, I am not throwing the Nut Rocha out. We will definitely not eat that corner and I won’t be sharing with any friends, but I’ve sunk too much in the way of ingredients, time, and emotions to quit now.

Wait a minute. I STILL haven’t put the chocolate chips on! I slam the window shut. Because of all the butter my wedding ring goes flying off—can’t be bothered with that now—and grab up a handful of chocolate chips and dump them on. They sink to the bottom. Aren’t they supposed to sit on top so I can spread them all over nicely once they’re melted? Does this mean the candy thermometer wasn’t broken and I need to have more patience?

I stick four fingers all over this creation trying to find a spot that has set up. Oh, wait! This is the same hand that scrubbed the floor that I haven’t washed yet. Okay, there is no salvaging any of it now. I—in keeping with the mood and okay, I have a bit of a temper—fling the cookie sheet toward the sink where it hits and throws Nut Rocha on the window where it finally sets up.

Loss of Nut Rocha: 100%

“Ya know,” Bill drawls coming around the corner, “this could have all been avoided if you’d waited until we found the three-quart pan.”

“Well, we didn’t find it and I was really craving Nut Rocha!” I yell.

“You’ve never had it before so how can you crave—” He finally reads my face (clenched teeth, clenched hands, nostrils flaring . . .) “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes, please change out the batteries in the trash can. They’re dead.”

So, while I’m cleaning up the mess by the sink and window and knowing that I still have the stove top and burner to clean, Bill cheerfully says, “What are you talking about?” Hand over, open, hand over, close. “Works fine for me. Sticky though.”

HIS saving grace? He’s much too big to fit into the trash can.

As I sit in my bedroom eating a store-bought piece of chocolate, I glance down to see my brand-new pants full of either Nut Rocha, Swiffer cleaner, butter or most likely, a combination of all three. None of which is going to come out.

Santa—what I need from you is possibly a new candy thermometer, definitely a three-quart heavy-duty pan, a new hardwood floor, new pants, a rimmed cookie sheet that doesn’t warp when heated, a detective to find my ring, and—depending on how the rest of the Christmas season goes—possibly an extra-large trash can.