The shortbread came out beautifully. Tender and buttery.
I was patient with the caramel. I let it work itself into a beautiful amber nectar for 45 minutes. I stared at it and didn't touch it like a good girl. The problem came when I added the sweetened condensed milk. I should have let it cook for a while longer, but I was too excited to top the shortbread and get it in the fridge to set. And of course there was the matter of my toddler who had woken up from his nap and wanted to play. So I poured the caramel onto the shortbread and into the fridge it went for a few hours, crossing my fingers the entire time.
I melted some beautiful Guttiard milk chocolate and created the most decadent ganache to finish off the masterpiece to come. Again, into the fridge to set.
Time for a midnight snack! I cut into the bars, anxious for a taste of this labor of lo
ve. But what happens next is a sad sad sight. Hoping against all hope that it is the laws of the universe, "the first piece is always the hardest and ugliest" I tread onward. Cutting, scoring, delicately removing slivers and chunks. With every stroke of the knife and lift of the spatula, more and more of the caramel splorches out. Yes, splorches- it's the only way to describe it.
What did I do with this mess, you ask? Well, what any sane person would do. Ate it. Was it good? Yes. Did it fulfill the decadent treat I so longed for? Yes. Was it ugly? Dear God, yes.
Will I revamp and try again? You betcha.
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