Sunday afternoon, while waiting for Mr. Handsome to wake up from his lazy snooze so that he could drill some holes in some coins (the drilling is proving to be too difficult/dangerous/detailed for Yo-Yo to manage, what with all the breaking bits and slippy-slide-y metal) so that I could make some jewelry (which I then listed on Monday morning and promptly sold one of the pieces before I even had time to turn around—wheee!), I decided to make marshmallows.

Marshmallows have been swarming the bloggy food world for months, but I’m just now catching on. I’ve wanted to make them. In fact, I’ve thought about them quite a bit, but I never could bring myself to do it. I’m a tad bit scared of gelatin, and I try to avoid corn syrup, and since marshmallows only run a buck a bag at the store, it was just much easier to buy them when the urge arose than to worry myself with strange ingredients.

However, every time I read a new post about marshmallows (like this one or this one), my desire to make them would come sneaking out of the recesses of my mind to stand there in the middle of my mind wringing its puffy, white hands till I flapped my arms and stomped my feet in its general direction, sending it scuttling back into its hiding place again. Harumph.

But then I read Tara’s post and my little marshmallow urge came boldly striding out to claim center stage, jutting its chin at me as if to say, Try and scare me off THIS time.

I know when I’m beat. I curtsied demurely and then headed out to the kitchen where I dug the bag of gelatin out of the cupboard and plugged in my Kitchen Aid mixer.

(Tell me this: is it normal for a person to personify her thought patterns? Because I seem to do it all the time…)

The cooking process for the marshmallows was straight forward and simple, but halfway through I started to have some serious doubts. See, the marshmallow goo gave off the unmistakable and dismaying odor of, of …of a barnyard. Every time I leaned in close to the thrashing mixer and breathed deep, visions of horses’ hooves clopped through my mind. It was disturbing, to say the least.

Perhaps this, talking about horses’ hooves while eating marshmallows, is considered untactful? Perhaps it makes my kitchen sound gross? Perhaps no one will ever want to eat at my house again? (And did you catch the tweet about how when I turn my oven on it gives off an intense urine stench?) All this talk of pee and manure makes me sound right high-class.

But it’s true! And I’m all about being candid. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to try to make marshmallows, catch a whiff of barnyard, and then lose sleep wondering if you were the only one.

Besides, I like to drag everyone down into my miserable mucky mess with me.

This tale of weirdness has a good ending, though. Once I added the salt and vanilla, and by the time I dumped the whole satiny, voluptuous cloud into the pan to cool, all traces of equine odors had dispersed and I kept myself happily employed licking bowl, spatula, and whisk. Amen.

When it came time to flip the pan of marshmallows upside down and cut them up, the entire family gathered ‘round. They oohed and aahed most appreciatively. I doled out tastes.

Mr. Handsome was floored in a most gratifying way. He said things like, “They taste like marshmallows! Really!”

And, “They’re way better than the store kind.”

And, “Wow.”

What with all the praise and sugar, I was flying high.

Right then and there I mixed up a pot of hot chocolate (‘cause it’s what you have to do when you make marshmallows) and served everyone a mug (adult mugs got spiked with Bailey’s), a fat marshmallow floating on top. It was perfectly glorious.

And then yesterday afternoon I had to make myself another cup of hot chocolate so I could take a picture for you all (because it was dark when I did the family hot chocolate thing) and of course I had to spike it so you would get the full effect (you can totally see the difference in the picture, right?) and then I sipped and clicked my way most merrily through my chocolate-y, creamy, marshmallow-y hot toddy.

Marshmallows
Adapted (only a little) from Tara of Seven Spoons

This are delicious plain but their true spectacularness comes out when set a-float a mug of hot cocoa. Do it.

If you want thinner marshmallows, divide the mixture between two 9×13 pans.

Marshmallow variations, yet untried (but not for long): an egg white-less version, toasted coconut, peppermint or almond.

And how about dipping them in chocolate? Yes!

1 cup water, divided
3 tablespoons gelatin
3 egg whites
2 cups white sugar
½ cup corn syrup
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla
½ cup powdered sugar
½ cup cornstarch

Sift together the powdered sugar and cornstarch. Grease a 9 x 13 pan, sprinkle the bottom and sides with some of the sugar-cornstarch mixture, and then set both bowl and pan aside.

Measure ½ cup of cool water into a bowl and sprinkle the gelatin over top. Set aside.

Measure the remaining ½ cup of water, the white sugar, the corn syrup, and the salt into a heavy bottomed saucepan and, stirring occasionally, bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so that the mixture simmers steadily, attach a candy thermometer to the side of the pan, and allow the mixture to simmer, undisturbed, till it reaches 240 degrees, or the soft ball stage. It should take about 12 minutes.

While the syrup is simmering, put the three egg whites into the bowl of a kitchen mixer. (You can do this with a hand-held mixer, but you will be holding that thing for about 15 minutes. It won’t be difficult, but it will be tiresome.) (On the other hand, if you’re scared you’ll burn up your Kitchen Aid [because 15 minutes is a long time], it’s better to use a hand held mixer.) Beat the egg whites till soft peaks form.

When the syrup reaches 240 degrees, take it off the heat and stir in the gelatin.

With the mixer set on medium speed, slowly pour the syrup in, down the edge of the bowl. (If it gets into the blades, it will splatter viciously. Be careful.) Once all the syrup has been added, turn the mixer to high and let it whip frantically for the next 12-15 minutes. The goal is to bring the mixture down to room temperature and to thoroughly fluff it…and then some. Add the vanilla and beat for another minute.

Pour the marshmallow goo into the prepared pan, and, using a lightly oiled spatula, spread it out as best you can. Sift some more of the cornstarch/confectioners sugar mixture over top. Let the mallows rest for several hours to set up.

Run an oiled knife around the edges of the pan and turn the sheet of marshmallows out onto a dusted (sugar-cornstarch mixture again) cutting board. Cut them (using an oiled kitchen scissors or sharp knife or pizza cutter) into the desired size. Sprinkle (or roll) the sticky sides in the sugar mixture before storing in an airtight container.

This same time, years previous: the big snow

Not since 1638 has a lunar eclipse fallen on the northern winter solstice, so we decided to whoop it up real good. (Next one scheduled for 2094. Mark your calendars.)

Though we didn’t whoop it up as good as I originally planned. I thought it might be fun to load the kids into the car and drive to town under an eclipsed moon—how romantic! what memories!—for donuts, but when I suggested my idea to Mr. Handsome, he nixed it right quick. Party pooper.

Instead, we set the alarm for 2:30 and then hustled everyone out of their beds and out to the deck to stare at the disappearing moon. It darkened and reddened, its little edge of glinting silver growing noticeably smaller by the minute.

While the moon did its thing, I stood at the stove, banged a whisk against a pot, and whipped up some hot chocolate for the masses. (Tea for me.)

We oohed and aahed, sipped and yawned, and, after an hour of groggy excitement, crawled back upstairs to our beds.

Everyone disobeyed my orders to sleep in, so this day is sure to be tedious. And Sweetsie is miffed because winter is here (or so we say) but there’s no snow. What a rip-off.

But hey, look! The moon’s back!

This same time, years previous: lemon cheesecake tassies

I’ve been receptive to all sorts of inspiring lately. First there was the elving (still in the works, too), and then there were these:

Candied orange rinds dipped in dark chocolate. (Cue the Hallelujah Chorus.)

My girlfriend (the same one who was present for the Christmas nippy shake-down) is the one responsible for bringing these into my life. She started messing around with orange peels in her kitchen and within a couple days I had purchased myself some oranges, too. I’m such a follower.

They are simple to make, folks. Easy Peasy, A Piece of Cake, and Nothing To It, etc. All you do is blanch some orange rinds, simmer them in simple syrup, dry them out a bit, and then dunk them in chocolate.

When you stop to think about it, it’s just salvaged compost that gets a gussy-up treatment. And when you look at it that way, these decadent little gems suddenly appear thrifty. Downright virtuous. A frugal woman’s dream.

(For the record: I am neither frugal nor thrifty nor virtuous. Proof: I went out and bought oranges just for their hides instead of the other way around—buying oranges for the insides and then scrounging around for a recipe that called for orange rinds because it would be an abomination to throw out so much lovely orange-y-ness.)

Despite all my prattle about it being a simple recipe, my first batch went to the chickens. A recipe I found on the web called for cooking the sugar-water syrup till it reached the soft ball stage and then adding the rinds and simmering them for another hour. The result? Crystallized, crunchy, gross orange rinds. To make matters worse, silly me went ahead and dipped them in chocolate anyway and then decided there was no redemption to be found anywhere and dumped the whole extravagant failure into the slop bucket. (You’d think the chickens might take into consideration all the gourmet fare I feed them and lay me some Cadbury eggs…)

The second batch was much, much better. My friend patiently coached me through the process via the phone wires until I finally had a confection worth eating.

And once I started eating—oh-me-oh—I couldn’t stop!

I am enormously proud of these little delicacies. Gummy, chewy orange-ness with a touch of bite and a kick of dark sweet. They’re good. Three-fourths of my children even like them!

Then I went and gave them all away so now I have to make me some more.

But I think I’ll wait till we get ourselves our Christmas citrus. Wouldn’t want any rinds to go to waste, you know.

Chocolate-Dipped Candied Orange Rinds

I did only four oranges but found I had plenty of simple syrup. Next time I’ll probably do six oranges at one go.

5-6 thick-skinned oranges, rinds of
4 cups white sugar
3 cups water
1 pound good chocolate

Wash the oranges (if you can find organic oranges, go for those) and cut the north and south poles off. Score the oranges into four sections and, using your fingers, gently pry off each section of rind. Slice the rinds into sticks about 1/4-inch wide.

Put the sliced orange rinds into a kettle and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil. Dump the contents of the kettle into a strainer, discarding the water. Rinse off the rinds with cold water. Repeat the blanching process two more times.

Put the water and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a full boil. Add the thrice-blanched orange rinds and return to a boil. Reduce the heat to simmer (a gentle bubble) and allow to cook for 45-60 minutes, or until translucent (the pith loses its whiteness and turns a little more, well, translucent).

Remove the rinds from the syrup (if you wish, you may save the orange-flavored simple syrup to add to hot tea, punch, or alcoholic beverages) and lay the rinds out on a wire rack that is positioned atop a cookie sheet to catch the drips. Let the orange pieces dry by either a) letting them sit at room temperature for a couple days, or b) setting your oven to the “warm” temp and “baking” them for two or three hours. (Lacking patience, I went the “b” route.)

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler and dip each candied orange rind into the chocolate. Scrape off excess chocolate before laying the candies on a wax paper-lined cookie sheet to dry.

Store chocolates in glass jars or tins at room temperature.

This same time, years previous: walnut balls