Eat it, Betty Crocker.

I wanted to make something aside from the usual toffee I bring to the family for the holidays. I don’t have the Martha Stewartish panache; however, I actually enjoy making candy, the science of it. I’m not particularly good at any of it, really– nothing I make is pretty–but I find the process a great exercise in concentration. My mind is in the zone when I’m focused on getting the toffee to the hard crack boil.

(My toffee. It’s the only thing I make that’s worth it.)

Anyway, the goal was to make nama chocolate–a duplicate of that ridiculously delicious chocolate truffle I’d tried while I was in Japan–but the recipe I found was terrible, a literal recipe for disaster. I suppose I should’ve realized what I was getting into though since the creator of the recipe kept tossing in WARNING’s and BE CAREFUL NOT TO’s. What came out of it was a big, separated mess of caca that ruined a pan.

(Of course, stupid me, I’d not even read the commentary about the recipe until AFTER I’d done the damage. Apparently, everyone else had a shit time making “nama chocolate,” too.)

So after that disaster, today, I tried my hand at this easy sort of thing:

Look at how pretty they are. Perfectly coated in a thick, rich shell of chocolate. The white chocolate has been drizzled on so sparingly, just enough to add a slight hint of it, a little taste of creamy contrast.

Well, guess who bungled up something that’s supposed to be goddamn easy?

At least they’ll taste fantastic.

I’m calling them bird poop pretzels.

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