A Precarious Ganache

“Oh shit, oh bollocks . . . It’s separating. Look, the chocolate and cream is going all icky. I think it's something to do with milk and butter fat in the cream,” I mumbled. “I must have heated it too much. Bugger.”



I could feel my body beginning to tense up and my brow furrowing deeply. Not now, I silently begged the universe, please God don’t let my chocolate ganache turn into a complete disaster. Not after such a glorious meal.





We had just finished wreaking havoc on the food. The big cast iron skillet that had, only an hour ago, been weighed down by Sean’s epic chicken pot pie was dog-licking clean, my burnt carrots with thyme and melted goat brie were reduced to a couple remaining orange wands, and the beef, peppers, and collard greens were in a similarly diminished state. Conversely, our bellies were happily full of the feast. But I had sternly admonished my guests to save a corner of space in their interiors for the two desserts which I had so carefully prepared. But now, alas, the evening’s perfection is in danger of being spoilt by th mischievous and uncooperative ganache icing destined for the almond chocolate mousse cake.





And then I paused. Just as I was heading headlong into on of my kitchen meltdowns, I suddenly stopped. No, this was not going to work. I was categorically not going to spend the next year cooking as a competitive sport. It’s the very first feast and you’re already forgetting what this is about, one of my more balanced and sane inner voices said. Now, just calm down, breath, and remember that everyone is having a lovely time. A broken ganache may bruise your culinary ego, but no one else really gives a shit.





As if in confirmation, Cory, who had been strumming idly on his guitar, suddenly broke out into song, everyone else lolling about on the sofas and chairs, airing their distended bellies and sipping cups of espresso. And so I just let go. I put the offending ganache into the freezer for a time out, took a swig from my glass of Pimm’s (a cooling, gin-based English punch), and beamed around at everyone in the room: Bennett was deep in philosophical conversation with Kammie, the usual knowing grin playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Aleah and Reilly were curled up together on the couch, and Cory’s little daughters were running about like colorful, mobile Easter eggs, all blond hair and summer dresses.





After pottering about the whipped cream and peach tart, I went back to the freezer to examine my ganache. To my utter delight, a small miracle occurred. As I took the mixture out onto the counter and began beating it, the lumpy globs of chocolate and swimming pools of butter disappeared, morphing into a luscious, silken gloss.





Perhaps the Pimm’s had clouded my mind, but as I iced the cake, I thought about the year ahead and decided, with great satisfaction, that the magically mended ganache must be a very, very good omen indeed.

Cheers. And another sip of Pimm’s to that!