chocolatus interruptus

When I was growing up I remember learning the expression for bad girls—who tease boys, and then don’t follow through.   I was always warned not to tease; to be a good girl; and I took these warnings seriously.

I also take chocolate seriously. But after the P .S. in yesterday’s post,  I feel like a choc-tease.

And showing this photo again will probably just make it worse.

I didn’t mean  it as a come-on;   I fully intended to follow through.

My downfall is  this Valrhona Chocolate Caramel Creme Brulee.

(Just typing the name makes my pulse a little faster….)

Yesterday after moaning over it, we paid our compliments to its creator, pastry chef  Jamie Jarrard….at the Post Ranch Inn—one of the nation’s premier dining establishments.  Although she was very busy, she was gracious and adorable and let me drag her outside to take her picture.

And then…..(be still, my heart)  I learned that I could experience chocolate nirvana from the comfort of my own home.  When Jamie offered to give us the recipe.

She quickly scribbled on a piece of paper and rushed back to the kitchen where she had something in the oven that required her attention.

I put the card in my bag like she had given me buried treasure—planning to disclose the secret formula on my blog.  Life was good.

Until the chocolate god looked down and laughed at me.

I bet you’re thinking my purse looks like my desk and I can’t find the recipe.  Well, okay—I admit the inside of my purse does kind of look like my desk.  But I extracted the recipe, and I’ve got it  right here.

If you read carefully, you’ll see the problem—- not culinary or clutter; it’s communication.

I’m fluent in the language of chocolate;  in fact, it’s my native tongue.   But my expertise in eating doesn’t translate into expertise in cooking.  I sometimes require an interpreter.    And this recipe left me lost in translation.

My friends were able to explain “fleur de sel”; how to make “dry caramel” ;   what it means to “temper”.   But I’m still left to turn liters and grams into ounces; and  to guess the missing number of egg yolks or the baking time.

Myra, a precise professional who is a cookbook author herself, tells me I shouldn’t give out a recipe unless I can give exact measurements and have tested it.   Oops—too late for that; forgive me, Myra;  I’m desperate to find someone who can fill in the gaps.

Meanwhile I’m forced to leave you the same way it leaves me: frustrated.

Just sign me:

Chocolate-less in Carmel