Breakfast in Ojai

Monday, September 28, 2009

-The runny eggs were smeared onto blackened toast, accompanied by a Marlboro Light and the morning paper.-

Ojai Grandma had always had a rough voice, one with the kind of sandy tone that only comes from decades of hard smoking. She still smoked in the house even when my mother took my brother and I to come visit. It wasn't out of irresponsibility or ignorance to the then newly publicized hazards of second-hand smoke, but it was simply how it had always been for her. It was her house and she would smoke if she'd like as she would often reprimand my mother who had quit years ago during her first pregnancy.

I was fascinated when Ojai Grandma chided my mother. It was like watching a elusive natural phenomenon, an event more rare and forbidden than the northern lights confined to the four walls of a Southern California home. "Sybil," she would say, "just leave it be," and she would return to her morning balancing act of reading the paper, eating, and smoking.

When Ojai Grandma called her Sybil this confused me as my mother went by her middle name Suzanne. Sybil was Ojai Grandma's name as well. Everyone except Ojai Grandma called my mother Suzanne, but Ojai Grandma was mom's mom so she must know best, even better than mom I figured. For years I would be confused by this and was unsure as to what my mom's actual name was as I felt asking would be a stupid question. (The concept that she simply went by Suzanne with everyone but her parents never occurred to me as a child.)

That smoke worn voice was the source of much love, and confusion.

I miss that rough voice. When I was young I had a mental image that when she slept a chicken must have crawled onto her bed and scratched at her voice looking for worms. "A tasty meal might lie in her throat," the chicken would think. Its sharp talons would shred her voice into rough layers as it dug for its dinner. So, when Ojai Grandma spoke, it was like listening to a raspy choir of voices.

It was this voice that would chide my mother and lecture my brother and me. We would get in trouble for not drinking our orange juice, "Too sour!" we would say and push it away. The juice was only sour because we ate our sugary cereal first. Lucky Charms and other such breakfasts were a rare treat reserved only for Ojai Grandma's house so when we had a chance to eat them they were devoured with eager speed before anything else at the table.

"You always eat the marshmallows first. That's why your juice is so sour," she said in her hen-pecked voice. She then took a bite of her burnt toast smeared with runny egg yolks and bacon drippings as stared at us, compelling my brother and me to obey. That stare froze me to my seat until, with a grimace, I chugged the fresh juiced offense down as quickly as possible.

Today, I always drink my juice first, often using it to wash down vitamins and supplements. I won't touch the rest of my breakfast until I finish my juice. It's a strange habit. I'd rather enjoy my orange juice, now sweet and pleasantly sour enough. My eggs can go cold and they will still taste like eggs, apricot jam will still taste like apricot jam no matter what, but orange juice is persnickety in how it tastes.

I think to myself, "Rules must be followed," and then eat a piece of burnt toast smeared in runny egg yolk.

Voice and Blogging

Friday, September 25, 2009

This Saturday I'm at BlogHer Food 09 on the panel about voice and identity with Dianne, Ree, and Susan. I highly doubt we'll be able to get to everything we want to as it's a subject that we could spend days on. I wrote this little post up to give the topic a bit more depth and definition and open a little more dialogue about it. Please feel free to leave any ideas or contributions to the topic in the comments. ~Garrett

Voice is a difficult topic to pin down when when we're talking about blogging. It's not something you can mimic or try on like a suit. Voice is organic, unique to each blog and its producer. In the overcrowded world of food blogging your voice is your signature dish - each photo, recipe, post, and review represents you.

The basic rule to voice is what we've been taught since we were little: to be yourself.

It's astonishing just how hard that is. How do you convey who you are and your point of view in a way that's reflective and gives your readers a sense that they're sitting down with a real person? Translating this to paper (or in this case the screen) is no easy task.

I recently had dinner with a friend at a nearby sushi joint so we could play catch-up. As we traded stories about life, careers, and love over not-so-impressive bowls of miso soup I started to tell him about the panel. I asked permission to be self indulgent for a moment - I ask the same of you right now as well - and queried if he could describe what my blog voice was like. I had never sought out an outside opinion about my voice but I figured it was a sensible way to find out.

He sat for a moment pondering my question and finally said, "I can tell it's you when I read your blog. I mean, the way you write and the way you talk are different, but I can tell it's the same person. Your inflection, humor, and descriptions when telling stories are different than anyone else I know. You have a dry sarcasm and your words have a rhythm. I've heard and read plenty of your bitchy rants too to know when it's you who is complaining. Even if I were to just hear someone read your posts out loud, I would be able to tell it's you."

And there it was - my voice laid out to me. I asked a few other friends the same question, and while the answers varied certain traits were consistent. This little demo shows that your voice is your calling card. If you're not sure what it says, ask someone who reads your blog regularly. It may be a bit awkward but it's informative and something you should know.

Now, the difference between voice on your blog and voice in a conversation is that one requires more forethought. You don't ponder for a half hour how you'll reply when someone inquires about your day. Yet for a blog post we have to plan what we're going to say; in other words what our voice will be for each post.

How are you putting forethought into your blog post? Well, if you plan to talk about a recipe you have to consider a dozen things. What is in season? What is your cooking style? How do you want to photograph it? Why are you choosing this recipe? How do you want to introduce it? Why do you want to blog about this recipe? How will you write the recipe? Each decision is part of what will make up your voice.

After doing this for many posts you begin to demonstrate a certain individual style, this style is your voice, the voice of your blog. Your voice then becomes representative of your identity, or who you are as an individual outside of the blog. You then are the selling point of your blog through your identity, voice, and style.

The only way to develop your voice is to just keep blogging away. Write a lot, challenge yourself, find niches that you excel in, and keep your focus narrow. Your voice will grow and gain strength and, eventually, your confidence will grow making voice all the louder.

Tips for Finding Your Voice

Write Every Day: Every writing coach, English teacher, blogger, and writer will tell you that. Remember that you don't have to post everything you write. I know I have many posts that never saw the light of day, but did give me good ideas for future ones.

Stop and Consider: Ask yourself what the purpose of your post is? Think if there is a story or lesson somewhere in your recipe, or why you're using a particular photograph. A moment of reflection can make good posts great.

Get used to "I": The scary part where you have to reveal yourself to your readers. Remember that your voice is valid and has a right to be heard. A unique voice is what draws people into a blog. The prettiest pictures and the best recipes don't mean much unless they have an identity behind them. Writing coach William Zinser says, "writing is an egotistical act. Get used to it." This seems especially true to food blogging where you and your interactions with food are the main event.

Experiment: No one finds their voice overnight. It takes practice. Drafts. Time. Risk of failure. Try out different writing methods. Mimic your favorite authors and try to write in their style, see what works for you and what doesn't. The traits that work for you you'll absorb and adapt to your own. Try new posting formats, writing a book review, conducting an interview, or take new kinds of pictures. You may stumble into something you like.

I also highly suggest that every blogger pick up a copy of On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction by William Zinsser, and Will Write for Food by Dianne Jacob.

You can find another great post about describing your voice on Dianne's blog.

Indifference (In Regards to Bread Pudding)

Sunday, September 20, 2009

-Pumpkin bread pudding with shaved chocolate is definitely one of the better things in life.-

"... and later tonight I plan to make bread pudding."

"Oh," he said.

"What?" I replied, already depressed at the answer I knew was coming.

"Nothing. Just, you know, bread pudding," he said while shrugging his shoulders.

This was the general reaction I had received throughout the day. As I traded weekend plans with friends and co-workers I would eventually get to the part where I would say that part of my Saturday schedule was to bake up a thick n' custardy bread pudding. Mind you, not just any bread pudding, pumpkin bread pudding with shaved chocolate.

Normally, my cooking plans get a bit more reaction than a stone-faced, "Oh, bread pudding." People had more to say about the fact that I also planned to mop my floors, sympathizing with me over the labor of it or launching into a humorous anecdote which surprised me as mopping is the last thing I would suspect someone would have a humorous anecdote for.

This isn't to say the reaction was negative, but it wasn't exactly positive either. No one professing their adoration for custard soaked chunks of bread, studded with raisins and cinnamon. Not a peep about eating a plate of it cold for breakfast with a dollop of whipped cream. At the same time no one told me stories of how their grandmother piled mounds of bread mush so sickeningly sweet it was no wonder dad was diabetic.

*sigh* All I got was indifference.

And here's the thing about indifference. It is, in my opinion, worse than hate. If you hate something that means it at least preoccupies a place in your consciousness. You are willing to point out your dislike openly. It has enough presence to rate somewhere in your life. If you're indifferent to a person, place or thing then that means it's moot. It doesn't have the importance to even register.

Simply put, you don't give a crap one way or the other.

This seems like a cruel attitude to have towards something as rich and homey as bread pudding. Personally, I get a little bit excited over it. How many desserts require so little work? What else encourages you to use up extra stale bread, cream on the precipice of spoilage, or that lone egg that's just sitting around? How many desserts have such an aura of hospitality and whose simple components effuse such a charming comportment?

This bread pudding's use of pumpkin and spices make it reminiscent of your favorite pumpkin desserts (indeed, you may forgo your favorite pumpkin pie recipe in lieu of this). The shaved chocolate adds a bittersweet tinge to the dish that makes it all the more irresistible. Simple prep, a mere rendezvous in the kitchen, and this slightly stylish dessert is turned out. And, I promise, every response you get will be "Oh! Bread pudding!" said through the biggest of smiles.

-As tempted as you might be to lick chocolate off a rasp, don't.-

Pumpkin Bread Pudding
Adapted from Gourmet

1 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup canned solid-pack pumpkin
1/2 cup whole milk
1/2 cup sugar
2 large eggs plus 1 yolk
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground allspice
Pinch of ground cloves
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 tablespoons of shaved chocolate
5 cups cubed (1-inch) day-old baguette or crusty bread
3/4 stick unsalted butter, melted

1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Melt the butter.

2. Whisk together pumpkin, cream, milk, sugar, eggs, yolk, salt, spices, extract, and shaved chocolate in a bowl.

3. Toss bread cubes with butter in another bowl, then add pumpkin mixture and toss to coat. Transfer to an ungreased 8 or 9-inch square baking dish, shave with a little bit more chocolate if desired (who wouldn't?). Bake until custard is set, 25 to 30 minutes.
-If you're honestly indifferent to this then you must be a robot sent out to kill all humans. You monster.-

To the Faux Vegetarians...

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

From the archives. I enjoy re-posting this once a year, usually when I get swamped from class. I edited it a bit this time around and added some new content. Enjoy!

I am officially done cooking for vegetarians. Okay wait, let me rephrase that: I am done cooking for faux vegetarians, and faux eaters in general.

"I don't eat any animals. But I love sushi."

I stare back in dumfoundry and reply, "Fish are animals."

She's encountered this remark before and counters, "No, they live underwater."

Someone explain that one to me, please.

"I eat meat but not pork. Well, except bacon." Oh, that makes sense. I wasn't aware there was such a thing as kosher pancetta.

"Eating animals is cruel." And your leather prada bag was developed through stem cell research, right?

In my opinion, as a total hardcore bacon portobello mushroom burger lovin' omnivore, vegetarians are people who eat nothing that ever flew, swam, or walked this earth. If it could move and think it's an animal and not on your menu. Last I checked that was the definition. So when I cook for someone who tells me they're a vegetarian, this is the rule I follow. Dairy and eggs are fair game unless they call me ahead of time and tell me otherwise (but that would be vegan then). All God's creature's are a no-no. I shouldn't be asked why I didn't prepare that "dish with those massive shrimp," by the said vegetarian.

Really, I don't mind cooking around allergies, likes, dislikes, health problems, and religious or moral viewpoints. I'm not going to serve a ham sammich with tomatoes to a practicing Muslim who gags at the thought of a sliced tomato touching their food. I will not, however, cook for someone who sits down and says they are on the Atkins for the next three days and can't eat the salad I made (insisting on near-raw hamburger instead), or the vegan eating a cheese bagel because "They're just too good to give up."

These are all real quotes and real food situations I've been tortured obliged to take part in, and it's this kind of random adoption of dietary proclivities that truly piss me off. It's ridiculous the types of food habits and special rules some people will adopt for themselves simply because it's fashionable or trendy at the time, then expect the host to cater to these farcical whims.

Is ridiculous a bit harsh? Not in my opinion. This tendency to see one's own fanatical and ever changing gustatory status as a "lifestyle" which should be catered to by everyone around them is the definition of the word. That, and it certainly can't be healthy for the mind or soul (nor the appetite for that matter).

Furthermore, jumping into the world of food allergies. If you're allergic to something, let's say apples, then tell me and I won't cook apples for you. If I catch you eating an apple later and you explain that really you "just don't like cooked apples, only raw" then you've been caught lying for the most ambiguous and unimportant reasons. There is no need to fib to refuse a dish, but rather just tell the truth even if it's during the meal in question where apples have been prepared. Forging dietary restrictions to get out of eating a meal someone served you is disrespectful to the host.

Sorry to have written in such a side-to-side, all over the board manner but I needed to get this one out of my system. To any faux vegetarians, semi-vegans, trendy dieters, sometimes allergic, stewed tomato eating raw food proponents: Bite Me. When you have figured out what you really want to eat, let me know, and you will be welcome to my table. There will be a hot meal waiting for you.

Conversations with Pears

Sunday, September 13, 2009

-Conversing with pears is the only way to find a good one.-

She was a pear shaped woman which, I suppose, was to her ironic benefit as pears were what she sold. She was dressed in an old sweater with a faded image of a school mascot I could barely make out. Her cheeks were blush and plump which were probably more charming when she wore her hair down. As it was now, her hair was tied up in the back with a rubber band which better showed the fatigue that pear farming had levied over the years.

Still, her pleasant smile and sweet disposition had a warming effect; they illuminated her and shined on those nearby. These and her baskets of colorful fall fruits are what drew such a crowd to her stall.

A basket of Gala apple were front and center. Their pink and yellow streaks were funky and vibrant, reminiscent of a party dress from 1985, yet they made it sleek and fashionable allowing any passerby to understand their socialite nomenclature. Next to it were bulbous Golden Boscs, whose sandpaper skin barely contained their crisp, meaty flesh. Russet hued Seckles sat like petite dolls in a collector's display next to amber glowing Comice who tried not to bruise one another.

I had asked the pear woman which ones would be good for baking. "Bartlett," she had said, and pulled down a bag while inquiring what my pastry plan of attack was.

"A crisp. Or a crumble. It depends. They all start out as crumbles, but if I forget that it's in the oven it's a crisp."

I was amused at my pun. I couldn't tell if she was, wasn't, or just missed it all-together. She just smiled and moved towards the basket of green Bartletts.

She went through the pile of pears reading their topography. Her experiences with pears has immersed herself in their own natural culture and she was now able to communicate on their level, understanding their inflections and sweet humor. She understood the secret language of pears, their pin-prick speckles and heft being their way of conversation. "I'm great for baking!" said one, and she dropped it into the bag. "Too late! I'm way too ripe!" said another once she put the pressure on. She put that ripe one, a perfect pear to eat right there in the market, back in the pile to eagerly wait for the right owner.

I gave her $5 for a bag of Bartletts; more than enough to cook with and plenty to eat. I had her throw in a few Gala apples as well (a fashionable move on my part). "Be sure to add star anise with the pears," she instructed through the still ever-present grin. "It tastes great."

She then moved on to her next customer who was cooing over the Comice. I smiled back to her though I knew she didn't see me. She and her pears were too busy charming the patrons at the stall.

-Dulce de leche and star anise make these pears proud.-

Pear Crisp with Star Anise and Dulce de Leche
Makes one 8x10 inch pan

Baking whole points of star anise gives this dish an amazing flavor. Be sure to let people eating this know not to eat them though. The dulce de leche is optional, but trust me, you want it.

3 medium Bartlett pears, peeled and chopped
1/4 cup of sugar
1 star anise, broken up

heaping 1/2 cup of rolled oats
heaping 1/2 cup of packed brown sugar
1/4 cup of all-purpose flour
1/4 cup of chilled butter
pinch of cinnamon
Dulce de leche

1. Preheat the oven to 350F. Lightly butter a 8x10 baking dish.

2. Place the pears, sugar, and star anise in a bowl and allow to macerate for 15 minutes. While the pears macerate place flour, oats, brown sugar, and cinnamon into a bowl. Cut in the butter using your fingers, two knives, or a pastry cutter until it all comes together is small pea sized bits.

3. Place the pears in the baking dish. Cover with the oat mixture. Bake for 25-30 minutes or until the top is lightly browned. Serve with dulce de leche.
-Crisp when cooked too long. Crumble when cooked too short. I learned long ago the best way to fix a ruined dish is to rename it.-

Rum Soaked Cupcakes with Dulce de Leche Frosting

Thursday, September 10, 2009

-Dulce de leche will never be a food faux paux.-

I recently had a talk with my friend Kate who said she read the cupcake trend was coming to an end soon for a variety of reasons - the new fad of funky flavored ice cream, the bad economy, the over-saturation of cupcake bakeries. I was generally unfazed and unsurprised.

"Of course it is. You read about my Rocktar Ingredient Theory. Remember in the late 80's how every chef and product went insane for kiwis? Or the craze Alice Water's caused over her deification of green zebra heirloom tomatoes? I knew cupcakes were going out of style about a year ago," I said with assurance and a touch of arrogance.

My friend Kate looked at me,"Didn't you say you were making some later today?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. You see, just because it's out of style doesn't mean you can't still eat it and love it," I replied smugly.

Food fads aren't quite the same as fads in music and fashion. The way I see it food is centrally focused and has a direct purpose: to provide sustenance. Furthermore, food has the additional bonus of providing extreme pleasure through the senses. If something tastes good we get satisfaction from it. While you might not see kiwis on every plate at a restaurant, people still buy, grow, eat, and cook with them. The fad may be over but the food in question is still present and visible in the public consciousness, it just doesn't sit on a pedestal anymore.

Cupcakes may go out of style and a few cupcake shops may close, but no one will ever recollect about 2008 and wonder what they were thinking when they ate that cupcake with dulce de leche frosting. They'll think how sweet and moist the cake was, how the frosting had just enough salt from the cream cheese which tempered the rich dulce de leche. They'll remember the crunch of the almonds and the spice of the rum.

Then they'll go and make those cupcakes again because to hell with fads - good food never goes out of style.

-For fun times and big laughs put a dab of this stuff on your pet's nose and allow hilarity to ensue.-

Rum Soaked Vanilla Cupcakes
adapted from Gourmet - makes 12

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder
pinch of salt
6 tablespoons of butter, room temperature
1/2 cup of sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract
1 teaspoon of spiced rum (break out the Captain Morgan)
1/2 cup whole milk

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Put cupcake papers in a muffin tin.

2. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

3. Beat the butter and sugar together for a few minutes in high until light and fluffy. Add the egg, vanilla and rum and beat for another minute or two.

4. Add the flour mixture and milk alternatively in batches, beginning and ending with the flour mixture and mixing until just combined.

5. Divide batter among cupcake cups. bake for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack. When cooled brush with rum. Allow it to absorb for 10 minutes. Brush again with second coat of rum. When the rum is absorbed frost the cupcakes.

Dulce de Leche Cream Cheese Frosting

5 tablespoons of Philly cream cheese
1/2 cup of dulce de leche
slivered almonds

1. Beat the cream cheese on high for a minute. Add the dulce de leche and beat well. Frost cooled cupcakes and then add a small amount of slivered almonds.

-Couture comes in frosting.-

Harsh Realities

Monday, September 7, 2009

Every office has that one table. The one that’s always covered with food. Lots of food. Fatty, sugary, deep fried, salted, cream filled, jellied and buttered, extra pepperoni food. Food I have to struggle to avoid. A box of asiago and garlic bagels sitting next to a small tub of whipped cream cheese. Boxes of cookies. Leftover donuts from a meeting. Dishes that weren’t finished off at yet another potluck. It’s like a god damn siren calling sailors to their doom, except instead of craggy rocks it’s a warm cinnamon bun the size of your head.

I have to actually voice my self restraint when I pass by this table so it’s not uncommon to suddenly hear me scream, “Chocolate muffins, I REJECT YOU!”

Given, I am a major contributing force to the problem. Half the stuff you see me make on the blog ends up at work. One person can’t shouldn’t eat two dozen cupcakes alone, plus I’m trying to watch my girlish figure. The way I see it is that if I’m going to get fat I’m putting everyone on the train to Chubbyville with me.

Today there was half of a sheet cake sitting there. The tiny piped on frosting carrots that are so ubiquitous with Costco bakeries signaled that it was carrot.

A co-worker and her child were in the kitchen at the time. As she poured herself a cup of stale coffee that had been sitting motionless in the pot for the last five hours the child’s eyes never wavered away from the cake. Regardless of any motion he made he never lost direct sight of his sweet toothed desire. This carrot cake was his new God, and he its devoted acolyte.

Finally he summoned up the courage and piped up, “Mom, can I have a piece of carrot cake?”

“No,” she said, crushing his dreams.

“But it’s carrot cake! It’s a vegetable.”

I interjected, “No,” I laughed, “carrot cake is not a vegetable.”

The look of defeat on his face was almost heartbreaking. In under ten seconds I destroyed a child’s hopes and optimism. He knew that if a stranger saw through his specious reasoning, mom did too. I remember adults telling me this about carrot cake when I was little. It's a cruel fact and one of the many initiations into adulthood.

“Sorry sweetie,” mom said, “but we both know that’s not going to work.”

Harsh realities of life kid. Get used to it.

Another Truffles Post, But With Bacon

Thursday, September 3, 2009

-Yeah, I know even you vegetarians would go for this. Admit it.-

"Yes, you missed the truffles."

And there it was, The Pout. Purposely exaggerated to the point where it would elicit a sympathetic response from laughter. BF was excited when I told him I had made truffles, something I just discovered was one of his favorite foods. When he came over and found out that they had all been devoured at the potluck it was then that The Pout appeared.

I giggled back and promised that I would make them again. Even better, I would show him just how easy it was to do so. (BF has been showing an increasing interest in cooking which is wonderful because it means he can cook for me soon.)

The night of truffle making I began setting up. We were going to make a simple cinnamon chocolate truffle. Classic and simple, a perfect beginning confection.

"Would you get the heavy cream out, please?" I asked.

He went to the fridge and opened the door. "You have bacon."

"Yeah, I'm thawing it for dinner." I buy bacon in large blocks and then carve it out into portions which go into the freezer. When I need some I thaw it out slowly over the day in the fridge. It was for this reason that he was now confronted with a chunk of bacon about the size of two loose fists.

"Ooh! Can we make bacon truffles?"

I turned, a bit surprised and very intrigued. "Uh... yeah, sure! I'm down if you are."


Apparently while perusing the blog a few days back he had come upon the now famed (and first, I might add) bacon cupcake. Sad he had missed it BF was intrigued to try a sweet porky treat.

Oh, yes, there's a reason we get on so well.

The bacon truffles are awesome. There is no other word. Dark 70% chocolate, bitter enough to make your tongue tighten in all the right ways, is backed by meaty, salty bacon. It sounds odd but bittersweet and salty-savory work well together.

They were brought to dinner with BF's family and were met with at first trepidation, then grabby fingers as they nabbed truffle after truffle from the plate. A surprising candy that'll sway anyone to the side of sweet bacon treats.

-This picture is made out of pure, fricken' joy.-

Dark Chocolate Bacon Truffles
Makes about 30 truffles

1/4 cup + 7 tablespoons of heavy whipping cream
1/2 cup of fine chopped bacon
8 ounces of 60% or 70% chocolate (chips or well chopped)
cocoa powder for rolling

1. Cook some bacon in a skillet until well cooked, but not burnt. Place on some paper towels and press, being sure to soak out all extra grease. Dice into small pieces until you have a 1/2 cup.

2. Place heavy whipping cream in a small, heavy saucepot over medium heat and bring to just under a simmer. Take off heat.

3. Sprinkle in chocolate and cover for 5 minutes, allowing the chocolate to melt in the hot liquid. Stir gently until combined. (This is called a ganache.) Fold in the chopped bacon.

4. Pour into a bowl and cover. Refrigerate for 4 hours.

5. Using your hands dusted in cocoa powder and a teaspoon roll out balls of chocolate about 1/2-1 inch in diameter. Roll in cocoa powder and place on a plate. Store in the fridge. Bring to room temperature before serving.

*It's much easier to roll these with very cold hands. I put a jar or two of water in the freezer when the ganache is cooling. Bring them out when you are rolling. If your hands get too warm, hold the jar and chill your hands so the chocolate doesn't begin to melt.

-Make extra bacon and eat it. You know, to make sure it's good.-

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