Ultimate Chocolate Machine
Last Tuesday was my last day of work at Ramekins. But more importantly, it also marked the first time that I put “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” to use.
Some of you may be familiar with “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine”, as seen on TV. My well-meaning boyfriend Randy decided that just sending me three of his beautiful matted photos for Christmas was not enough. He had to stun me with something more. He had to pinpoint a present that would help me realize my innermost passions and dreams. He had to wow me with The Ultimate Gift.
And so the FedEx package arrived at my doorstep (sent at great speed and even greater cost, because one should not be forced to wait for such a gift. One simply should not be forced to wait a single moment longer than necessary, I tell you!), and I began my acquaintance with “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine.” I unwrapped it and stared in awe at the text on the side of the box, which braggingly proclaimed that it contained over 90 pieces.
“Over 90 pieces?” I thought nervously. “Where the hell am I going to put 90 pieces of chocolate-making paraphernalia? I live in a small studio! Will I have to rent a storage locker? Will I have to dedicate the trunk of my car to wrappers and molds and tempering equipment?”
I needn’t have worried. At least 75 of the pieces are twist-ties and small cellophane bags. Oh, and lollipop sticks. The other 15 include flimsy plastic molds in the shape of teddy bears and American flags, and a nonstick pot.
After pawing around in the package, I concluded that the manufacturer surely must have made a mistake. There was nothing inside that remotely resembled a machine. There was a small squeeze bottle, sure, and two plastic dipping forks that resembled gynecological instruments. But there was a definite lack of anything mechanized or machine-like. After cross-checking the packing list, I arrived at an unsettling conclusion. Apparently, “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” is in fact comprised of nothing more than a small, cheap, double boiler.
I swallowed my disappointment and decided to make lemonade from lemons. More specifically, I decided to make teddy-bear-shaped lollipops from a small, cheap, double boiler. I phoned my friend Rachael.
“Randy is coming to visit tomorrow. I need to show him how much his gift of “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” means to me. Can you come over and help me make chocolates in the shape of American flags?”
Rachael is a stand-up kind of gal. She’s there when you’re down and out, when you’re having chest pains and existential crises and need assurance that a friend is looking out for you. She’s there to explain that you’re mispronouncing “San Anselmo” and “ahorita”. She’s there to take you on a driving tour of Fairfax and the Sean Penn residence, and to offer you a walking tour of the block that’s featured in the credits of “Full House”. She’s there to express horror at the callous way she thinks she’s being portrayed in your blog, and to demand a paragraph extolling her virtues.
“There is nothing I dream of more than coming to Fairfax tomorrow and helping you make chocolates in the shape of American flags.”
Fast-forward one day. The cutting board was out, and I was chopping crystallized ginger into bits. Rachael was slicing up Ghirardelli Dark. Mini Oreos awaited submersion. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was firing on all cylinders. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was operating at maximum capacity. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was boiling a small amount of water.
We melted the chocolate in its upper chamber, and poured it into the various disturbingly-shaped molds. I guess I am not a normal American, because the idea of biting into an American-flag-shaped chocolate does not fill me with patriotic zeal. Normal Americans eat that shit up, just like they eat up bags of red, white and blue tortilla chips and airbrushed flag ice cream cakes. Nor do I find the prospect of anything shaped like a teddy bear to be appealing, edible or not. But normal Americans, they’re a different story. To these people, perfection just might come in the form of a teddy bear wearing Stars and Stripes underpants, or something. These normal Americans are the lucky ones whose preferences apparently dictate the mold choices made by the (probably Chinese) manufacturers of “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine.”
By the end of our session, I had scrubbed out the double boiler four times. A pile of dirty molds sat by the sink awaiting my attention, and the cellophane bags had muddied themselves every time we tried to package a lollipop or Oreo. Chocolate smears streaked across the floor. Most distressingly, our labors had resulted in nothing more than a pile of limp, grayish chocolates coaxed into barely identifiable shapes, sticky with impotent blobs after our attempts to drizzle white chocolate artistically across their tops had failed.
I began to wonder whether the name “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was actually the punch line of an elaborate joke perpetrated against humankind, or at least against me. Perhaps “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was actually meant to refer to me, rather than the small, cheap double boiler. The experiment with Rachael had only proved what a defective mechanism I truly am. To assuage my feelings of inferiority, I reached for a chocolate teddy bear and bit its little head right off.
Epilogue:
ME: “Dude, get your camera and I’ll take a picture of you eating a chocolate for the blog.”
RANDY: “But they’re gross. They taste gross. The texture is gross. I guess I could hold one close to my mouth and pretend.”
Some of you may be familiar with “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine”, as seen on TV. My well-meaning boyfriend Randy decided that just sending me three of his beautiful matted photos for Christmas was not enough. He had to stun me with something more. He had to pinpoint a present that would help me realize my innermost passions and dreams. He had to wow me with The Ultimate Gift.
And so the FedEx package arrived at my doorstep (sent at great speed and even greater cost, because one should not be forced to wait for such a gift. One simply should not be forced to wait a single moment longer than necessary, I tell you!), and I began my acquaintance with “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine.” I unwrapped it and stared in awe at the text on the side of the box, which braggingly proclaimed that it contained over 90 pieces.
“Over 90 pieces?” I thought nervously. “Where the hell am I going to put 90 pieces of chocolate-making paraphernalia? I live in a small studio! Will I have to rent a storage locker? Will I have to dedicate the trunk of my car to wrappers and molds and tempering equipment?”
I needn’t have worried. At least 75 of the pieces are twist-ties and small cellophane bags. Oh, and lollipop sticks. The other 15 include flimsy plastic molds in the shape of teddy bears and American flags, and a nonstick pot.
After pawing around in the package, I concluded that the manufacturer surely must have made a mistake. There was nothing inside that remotely resembled a machine. There was a small squeeze bottle, sure, and two plastic dipping forks that resembled gynecological instruments. But there was a definite lack of anything mechanized or machine-like. After cross-checking the packing list, I arrived at an unsettling conclusion. Apparently, “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” is in fact comprised of nothing more than a small, cheap, double boiler.
I swallowed my disappointment and decided to make lemonade from lemons. More specifically, I decided to make teddy-bear-shaped lollipops from a small, cheap, double boiler. I phoned my friend Rachael.
“Randy is coming to visit tomorrow. I need to show him how much his gift of “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” means to me. Can you come over and help me make chocolates in the shape of American flags?”
Rachael is a stand-up kind of gal. She’s there when you’re down and out, when you’re having chest pains and existential crises and need assurance that a friend is looking out for you. She’s there to explain that you’re mispronouncing “San Anselmo” and “ahorita”. She’s there to take you on a driving tour of Fairfax and the Sean Penn residence, and to offer you a walking tour of the block that’s featured in the credits of “Full House”. She’s there to express horror at the callous way she thinks she’s being portrayed in your blog, and to demand a paragraph extolling her virtues.
“There is nothing I dream of more than coming to Fairfax tomorrow and helping you make chocolates in the shape of American flags.”
Fast-forward one day. The cutting board was out, and I was chopping crystallized ginger into bits. Rachael was slicing up Ghirardelli Dark. Mini Oreos awaited submersion. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was firing on all cylinders. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was operating at maximum capacity. “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was boiling a small amount of water.
We melted the chocolate in its upper chamber, and poured it into the various disturbingly-shaped molds. I guess I am not a normal American, because the idea of biting into an American-flag-shaped chocolate does not fill me with patriotic zeal. Normal Americans eat that shit up, just like they eat up bags of red, white and blue tortilla chips and airbrushed flag ice cream cakes. Nor do I find the prospect of anything shaped like a teddy bear to be appealing, edible or not. But normal Americans, they’re a different story. To these people, perfection just might come in the form of a teddy bear wearing Stars and Stripes underpants, or something. These normal Americans are the lucky ones whose preferences apparently dictate the mold choices made by the (probably Chinese) manufacturers of “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine.”
By the end of our session, I had scrubbed out the double boiler four times. A pile of dirty molds sat by the sink awaiting my attention, and the cellophane bags had muddied themselves every time we tried to package a lollipop or Oreo. Chocolate smears streaked across the floor. Most distressingly, our labors had resulted in nothing more than a pile of limp, grayish chocolates coaxed into barely identifiable shapes, sticky with impotent blobs after our attempts to drizzle white chocolate artistically across their tops had failed.
I began to wonder whether the name “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was actually the punch line of an elaborate joke perpetrated against humankind, or at least against me. Perhaps “The Ultimate Chocolate Machine” was actually meant to refer to me, rather than the small, cheap double boiler. The experiment with Rachael had only proved what a defective mechanism I truly am. To assuage my feelings of inferiority, I reached for a chocolate teddy bear and bit its little head right off.
Epilogue:
ME: “Dude, get your camera and I’ll take a picture of you eating a chocolate for the blog.”
RANDY: “But they’re gross. They taste gross. The texture is gross. I guess I could hold one close to my mouth and pretend.”
posted by cindym at 5:43 PM
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