If You Had Asked Me An Hour Ago
If you had asked me an hour ago whether I wanted to make homemade marshmallows, I would have said oh sure. In fact, I would add, it’s good to get out there and try new things. Otherwise you might as well spend your life in an armchair just attracting lint, wearing the fabric of the butt cushion down more and more each day until the springs give out and you fall, finally, into the armchair, where you live silently ever after, occasionally sat on by your friends and family and pets.
That’s what I would have said an hour ago.
But that was before I tried a recipe for strawberry marshmallows that I found in Saveur magazine.
To be fair, I didn’t follow the directions exactly. The recipe said to simmer corn syrup and some other stuff in a saucepan until it reached 250 degrees on a candy thermometer. I didn’t have a candy thermometer and I was hesitant to use the the digital thermometer in the medicine cabinet, lest it short-circuit. So I estimated.
Then I “combined all the ingredients in an electric mixer,” which is when things took a hard left turn for the worse.
Maybe I overmixed? Or maybe marshmallows require more whimsy in the kitchen than, say, a pot roast. Perhaps I should have tweeted Zooey Deschanel and asked her to hum a song about fairies while I spread the pink goop into the pan. I don’t know. All I can say is the goop seized up. It was like Spiderman died in my kitchen, leaving behind a pile of tacky, unspun web.
Now the recipe says to remove the marshmallow sheet from the pan and cut it into squares, which reminds me of the time my high school calculus exam said to “Find f ‘(1) where f(x) = (x2 + 3x +1) (ex + 1)” and I was like “um, yeah. Not going to happen.”
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is here, to be honest. I’m going to sit in my armchair (which has risen greatly in my esteem in the past 60 minutes) and think about it. And when it comes to me, well, I’ll let you know, my friends. I’ll let you know.