I tend to be wary of crepes. I love them, but I just happen to have a habit of burning them as if I were knitting tissue paper over an open flame. Dodgy business these crepes.
Admittedly, at times I have a tendency to simply skirt away from certain challenges as if stealing away from disapproving parents in the middle of the night, not bothering to even leave a note. Most of my life I'm happy to meet a challenge. Yet there are always those lesser confrontations; ones where neither your future nor your reputation on the line. Some of them don't even bother to address you, instead happy to lay a deck chair out in the middle of the road and wait for you to drive around them simply because, let's face it, it's easier for both of you that way.
Caramel used to languish in my driveway like that. Until the day I was forced to run the bastard down, naturally.
It's always wonderful when you can cook with your friends. Better when they're also your mentors. So we made batter, and swirled and nuzzled it in the pan. I find that the process works best when you have a glass of sparkling wine in your hand. The universe seems to demand it and who am I to argue with the great cosmos?
After two or ten crepes you develop the knack for it and, suddenly, crepe after crepe they all come out smashing. We tucked them fat with Bosc pears that were sautéed in brown sugar and a wicked knob of butter that all bubbled into a fruity caramel scented with nutmeg and vanilla bean. The whole mess was then made wet with a honey-based caramel and lazy dollops of whipped cream looser than lair's lips.
It was probably one of the best crepes ever, frankly.
Also, the caramel was perfect.
Now I know that you probably want the recipe. I get it. I do. But I want to encourage you to go and pick up a copy of Inman's Wintersweet. So go. Get a copy. You won't regret it.