Today is a fundamentally boring day, a Chore Saturday. Chore Saturday is the Saturday after payday when you deal with all the things you’ve been putting off, such as the shopping, the laundry, the library books and the dishes. I tried to deal with the dishes this morning, but didn’t get very far, because I spent over half an hour on one cup.
A few weeks ago, not long after New Year’s, I was supposed to go to Lucienne’s to work on the computer on a Sunday afternoon. I didn’t know what time she would be picking me up-neither did she–so I stayed in the house for hours waiting for her to ring. I cleaned, did the dishes, read most of a 300-page book (which was incidentally about cooking) then, with an indefinite amount of time on my hands and an excess of sugar and butter in the house (see what not having a computer at home does to me? All the blogging I could have done in that time…) I decide to make caramel sauce. Just like that.
I barely know anything about caramel sauce, except that you’re supposed to have some primordial knowledge and take it off the burner just before it starts smoking, or you’ve ruined it. My attempt managed to set off the smoke detector.
The caramel wasn’t entirely ruined, it just had very strong smokey notes in its flavour mosaic. I ate some of it…it tasted a bit like my grandmother’s Christmas candy. But I couldn’t eat all of it, so I poured most of it into a coffee cup. It sat there, first in the fridge and then on the kitchen counter covered in plastic, for three weeks.
(GAAH! I have to go meet Daphnée and company. To be continued. There is a point to this story, I promise.)