(Or maybe he just doesn’t like pistachio. But it’s still love!)

Since the corner store rotates flavors randomly, there’s no point requesting a specific flavor. Still, The Fella knows what kind to get me: Chocolate with stuff in, or stuff with chocolate in.

Or pistachio.

We’ve had the “or pistachio!” conversation at least three times now, and here’s how that goes, more or less, every time:

Elsa: Or pistachio!
The Fella: [stops tying his shoes, looks up at me in disbelief] … really?
E: Yes.
TF: …
E: It’s my favorite, but they almost never have it. If they ever have it, I get it. If they ever have it, get it. EVER.
TF: How did I not know this? It’s like I don’t even know you!*

*This last sentence only occurred in the first iteration of this conversation, which suggests to me that subconsciously he does recall it, or he would face the same vivid surprise and apparent horror each time.

This weekend, we had another round of the same conversation, at which time I altered the standing order. From now on, the standing order: chocolate with stuff in or stuff with chocolate in, or pistachio. Even if I have specifically requested “no ice cream,” if they have pistachio, get pistachio. “Pistachio rescinds all other orders.”

The Fella: I’m running to the store, do y—
Elsa: ICE CREAM!
The Fella: [chuckling] I thought you might! What ki—
Elsa: Chocolate with stuff in or stuff with chocolate in.
The Fella: I thought so! Anyth—
Elsa: Or pistachio!

“Oh, we’ll have to do that next time, L.,” I said. “We don’t want to spoil our dinners!”

“I don’t mind,” she said, reasonably enough.

“Oh, but your mom** wouldn’t like it, would she?”

She said nothing for a moment, her little face pursed in wry understanding.

Then, suddenly… a light dawned on L.’s face. It was the light of revelation, of a world-altering discovery. It erased those wrinkles of displeasure, smoothing them over with wonder. In the spirit of innovators everywhere, L. had found a solution, a way to keep everyone happy. She bounced on her plump little legs, swept up in the delight and sheer novelty of the idea she was about to share.

Breathless and utterly guileless, she looked up at me and gasped:
“We could… not tell her!“

*I think — this was several years ago, and L. is now in middle school.
** Not to reinforce the all-too-common trope that Mom = responsibility and green beans, Dad = ice cream, ill-advised wackiness, and skateboarding injuries, but in this family… well, yeah.

Butterscotch sauce. Holy cats, I made butterscotch sauce for my mother a few months ago (a riff on this recipe, incidentally) and made the mistake of tasting it before pouring it into a pretty jar to give her.

I very nearly kept it. It’s that good.

How good? Well… this week, when I asked Mom what she might like for Christmas, she perked up. “Oooh! Butterscotch sauce!”

Yeah. Simple and utterly delicious, with a dark, faintly bitter undertone that faced up to its sweetness.

I spent a good 10 minutes scrabbling through notebooks and kitchen drawers, hoping I could find the notes from the day I made butterscotch sauce, to no avail. Happily, it turns out that I recorded it all here before, y’know, completely forgetting the notes existed.

I used a scant 1/2 tsp of kosher salt, half of what Shuna recommends keeping at hand, and it was just on the edge of perfect: the sauce is notably salty, but (I decided after five or six or twelve tastes) nicely so. One grain more would be too much.

Of course, I did a few things differently, some intentionally and some through sleepless befuddlement. (Note: I cannot recommend cooking scorching hot sugar when sleep deprived. Keep a bowl of ice water at hand. If you ever need it, you’ll be glad it’s there.)

My version was brandied butterscotch.
5 TBS unsalted butter
1 cup + 1 TSP dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (or less! see notes)
1 tablespoon fine brandy
3/4 cup heavy cream

Melt butter over low heat. Dump in sugar and salt, and stir to dampen thoroughly. Raise heat to medium and stir occasionally. Mixture will melt and lose its grainy appearance. When thoroughly molten, remove from heat. Dump in brandy and cream, and whisk vigorously until incorporated.

Return to heat and, stirring occasionally, bring to a bubbling boil. Let boil, stirring occasionally, fifteen minutes; watch carefully to avoid boiling over — you do not want to be cleaning this off your stovetop.
Remove from heat and let cool a bit, so you don’t burn your tongue. Now taste it, adding salt if necessary.

Decant into clean glass jars. Do not cover until thoroughly cool. Store in refrigerator.

To reheat, remove lid and place jar in shallow pan of water. Hold at a simmer — no higher! — until sauce is warm and liquid.

The differences from Shuna’s recipe follow:
- I added a tablespoon of brandy. (My vanilla is vanilla-steeped vodka, and I thought brandy would be a better match.)
- I accidentally cut in five tablespoons of butter, not four, so I dumped in an extra spoon of packed brown sugar.
- I added the kosher salt with the sugar, fearing it might not dissolve thoroughly off the heat.
- I let the mixture bubble and foam quite aggressively; I wanted this sauce to be thick, thick enough to stand a spoon in. I got what I wanted.
- The recipe calls for heavy cream, not ultra-pasteurized. I couldn’t get my hands on it, so I settled for ultra-pasteurized. Shuna says the stabilizers used in ultra-pasteurized cream give a bitter undertone to the sauce; I think it’s perfectly balanced. Any sweeter and it would be cloying.

Next time:
- I’ll try half dark brown sugar and half light brown sugar. I like the strong, potent darkness of flavor this sauce has, but it isn’t for everyone.
- I’ll add a quarter-teaspoon of salt with the sugar, then stir in the rest slowly to taste.

These cookies may trigger that atavistic urge to rage. They have no business tasting this good, and I’m both angered and thrilled that they do.

Perhaps you’ve seen the recipe from David Leite’s recent The New York Times article. [Log-in required.] It’s been making the rounds. People are swearing up and down that it’s The Best. Cookie. Ever.

I’m not arguing. Not yet.

I took some liberties with the recipe as presented in the NYT: since I keep neither white bread flour nor white pastry flour in the house (and bolstered by Orangette’s successful use of all-purpose flour), I used the King Arthur unbleached white flour I do stock. I didn’t have couverture chocolate lying around, either, so instead used a combination of bittersweet eating chocolate and semisweet chocolate chips. I also made half a batch, requiring some tricky math and half-assed measuring on the fly, which no doubt upset the ratios slightly.

Why, you may well be asking, am I toying freely with such a renowned recipe? Ah, but the recipe’s real revelation isn’t ingredients; it’s process. The dough must rest in the fridge for at least 24 hours; 36 would be better. (You should have thought of this yesterday.) This chilling period purportedly allows the flour to hydrate fully and gives the finished cookie a deeper, richer complexity of flavor than simple chewy sweetness.

note: The recipe calls for kosher salt in the dough and coarse sea salt dusted on the scooped cookie. Be aware that Morton kosher salt packs more densely than Diamond brand; skimp on the salt measurement if you’re using Morton. I didn’t, and my cookies were a leeeeeeetle too salty with the dusting of sea salt. Poor me, burdened with ever-so-slightly salty cookies — however shall I muddle along?

With unselfish devotion to SCIENCE!, The Fella and I threw ourselves into the sacrifice of research: I baked off two cookies from the unaged dough and — sigh — we had to eat them. They were delicious: sweet with crispy edges and hints of chewiness around the edge, but a bit too tangy from salt, with a limp frailness, and decidedly greasy.

Thanks to the time constraints of the Sandwich Party, I baked another test batch after 20 hours of aging, and I’m pleased to report a definite improvement: more balanced flavor with hints of molasses depth, firmer body, and though they’re still very buttery, I would never describe these cookies as “greasy.”

I’ll report back on the 36 hour batch, assuming we make it that long.

Once the cookies were baked and cooled, I gilded the #^@&ing lily: I made ice cream sandwiches. I spread slightly softened ice cream on the cool cookies, sandwiched them together, and popped everything in the freezer to set up nicely.

An hour later, the result: ice cream chocolate chip son-of-a-&!%*#wiches. Rich swirls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream sandwiched between elegant sea-salt dusted chocolate-flecked cookies.

Uh-oh. I feel the rage coming on.

A salty cookie doesn’t have to mean salty language. In deference to the delicate sensibilities of our readers, I’ve expurgated the foulness of my filthy, filthy mouth.

Just as I started slumping bonelessly into the truck’s bench seat, The Fella surprised me with our last stop: an ice cream parlor. He has a milkshake; I have a float. We both chose orange sherbet, recent determined by an independent panel of coolologists to be the coolingest of all the flavors.

The Fella is full of surprises, roughly five percent of them involving ice cream.

Why did this same innocent music inspire such brain-chilling terror when it woke me up at 2:30 this morning?

In the interests of full disclosure, I should add that BlogFast ended up being more like BlogRation, which doest have the same pithy sound, but which does conjure up images like WWII domestic propaganda posters, one of my favorite forms of graphic image. I think their main appeal for me is the acknowledgement, at long last, of the many roles that women play: we are shown as mothers, wives, homemakers, defense workers, and citizens. Also, look at all the pretty colors. Oooooh. Vivid.

Ahem. As I was saying, BlogFast would more properly be called BlogDramaticReduction, but that would be a mouthful. I did visit a few select blogs during the past week, but dramatically curtailed the surfing. Did it help? Hard to say — I found myself woefully behind schedule all week, and have only stopped now because my brain is threatening to leap out of my cranial vault if I brandish any more data at it.

Now that it is in recovery, my brain has evidently started a cleansing purge to remove all contaminating knowledge. I studied thoroughly, calmly, and meticulously for an anthropology exam on Tuesday, only to discover that the information vacated my brain Monday night and never did return. This is an experience I’ve not had before, and I didn’t much care for it.

So, it is midnight, I have an exam in the morning, and I have packed my books away and am celebrating my brain’s revolt with Ben & Jerry’s, because nothing says I give up quite like a brimming bowl of butterfat.