Drinking Chocolate

I was first exposed to drinking chocolate during my professional chocolatier program. Like most people, when I thought of chocolate as a beverage, my mind went to powdered hot chocolate mix or homemade hot cocoa (made with cocoa powder and milk). But actually melting down chocolate and combining it with milk (or cream!) -- that's a whole other level of decadence that I never knew existed! 

On a related note, years ago I frequented a coffee shop in Edmonton called Remedy and drank what I believed at the time to be the best hot chocolate ever. While a friend insisted that's because it was made with love (the barista had an outgoing personality and an appreciation for gingers), the reality is that it was just steamed chocolate milk. But I digress... where was I? Right, drinking chocolate.

For most of chocolate's history it was a beverage -- and not the sweet ones to which we're accustomed. It wasn't until cacao travelled halfway around the world that added sugar became commonplace and, later, that its bar form emerged and became popularized. During the Baroque period, chocolate was believed to be medicinal and, initially, it was expensive and available only to the elite. Like all good things, though, eventually mass production stepped in to make it more affordable and its consumption spread like wildfire. In the process, chocolate also lost its association with health, though those associations (and claims) are once again returning in the 21st century (perhaps the topic of a future blog). 

During my chocolatier program, I didn't have time to experiment with drinking chocolate, though I remember interacting with a classmate who intended to incorporate drinking chocolate into her storefront offerings. As I reflect on it now, I can't help but imagine an exclusive chocolate lounge called "The Chocolate Bar" where you drink chocolate. 

A few years ago, I watched a Jamie Oliver Christmas special on the Food Network and made a note to try his "Ultimate Hot Chocolate" which used chocolate shavings among other ingredients. When I finally did make (on New Year's Eve in 2021), I was disappointed. It wasn't nearly as thick and delicious as I expected it to be. 

And now fast forward to the spring of 2023. It's not really drinking chocolate season (if there is such a thing), but drinking chocolate is back on my mind. And that's because on a recent trip to the flea market, I found a unique piece of china that I couldn't walk away from. It seemed very unusual for a tea pot. I picked it up for a song and then set about trying to learn more about it. What sort of tea pot would have that kind of handle? Looking more at the shape, I wondered if it was a coffee pot, perhaps with Turkish influence. I sent a photo to (codename) Delta Charlie. Her response? "Wonder if it could be a 'chocolate' pot because of the location of the handle."

A chocolate pot? Did such a thing exist? Had a chocolatier just stumbled upon a unique piece of chocolate-related china from England? I did a quick google and concluded it was a solid possibility. And then I slipped down the rabbit hole and spent another hour or more (ok, it was several hours) searching for this maker, pattern, other pieces, etc., and not finding a great deal. So, if you're reading this blog and happen to know anything about Allertons Old English Bone China in the Trellis pattern, #2745, or about this style of pot more generally, please get in touch!

Anyway, that's how I landed on drinking chocolate for this evening's chocolate study. There are many variations on the theme -- some infuse spices like cinnamon or nutmeg into the milk before adding the chocolate, while others use only milk and chocolate. I decided to use ChocoVivo's method for "sipping chocolate" for my first foray. Since I don't own a molinillo (traditional stirrer used in making drinking chocolate), I used a regular run-of-the-mill kitchen whisk. My chocolate of choice? Callebaut 54% callets. And the results? 

Wow. 

That is the best "hot chocolate" I've ever tasted hands down. Like most simple things, the quality of ingredients will make a difference here. And the ratio of milk to chocolate is likely key. No need for thickening agents, like the cornstarch found in some recipes (I'm looking at you, Jamie Oliver). And a very rich, satisfying flavour. It's definitely worth trying this with your favourite dark chocolate -- and if you do, let me know how it goes!

Now, if you're a collector of dishes, like I am, this presents a fantastic opportunity to either use what's in your collection or grow it (or both)! Those demitasse cups you have even though you aren't much of an espresso drinker? Voila! They now have a purpose thanks to drinking chocolate. 

If I may, though, maybe keep the rectangular cups for display only. It isn't particularly easy to drink from them. Some dishes are form over function, but we love them anyway, right Delta Charlie?

Chocolate Teddy

Last week I read about modelling chocolate and recounted my experience with candy clay, wondering "aloud" whether real modelling chocolate would be more stable and work better. I made a note to try making it using Ewald Notter's recipe at some point in the future, but I didn't expect the future would come so soon. 

At least for 2023, Monday night is chocolate night in this apartment and I've been doing my best to keep with that schedule. When I found out that I had to attend a work-related meeting during what should have been chocolate time, I was disappointed and assumed that meant chocolate study just wouldn't happen this week. During an hour of down time between Teams meetings, I started making a grocery list and added the ingredients for modelling chocolate for a future chocolate session. That's when I realized I already had everything I needed. I looked at the clock: forty-five minutes until my meeting. I dropped everything and headed for the kitchen. 

Knowing I didn't want 1.5kg of modelling chocolate, I decided to scale down the Notter recipe and make only a quarter batch. Unlike the recipe for candy clay (which has two ingredients -- candy melts and corn syrup), the Notter recipe included water, sugar, glucose, and chocolate. It also contained instructions regarding the temperatures required to successfully combine all of the ingredients. With that information, I melted my chocolate first and let it cool on a marble slab while I prepared the other ingredients. After boiling the water and sugar in a saucepan and adding the glucose, I slowly streamed the sugar mixture to the chocolate while stirring. The ingredients incorporated beautifully. And then I did something I haven't done in a few years: I tabled the mixture on marble.

Shout out to (codename) Delta Charlie. Years ago when I decided to take the professional chocolatier program, I remember telling her about the many items on the supply list, including a marble slab. And when I returned from Newfoundland after Christmas, I found a marble cutting board among my Christmas presents. It served me well during the program and it came in handy once again this week!

It took about 15 minutes, but the mixture transformed from fairly fluid to more of a fudge-like consistency as I worked it on the marble with my plaster spackle knife. (Note: It's only ever been used with chocolate.) By the end, I was able to pick it up with a gloved hand and knead it. I loosely wrapped it in waxed paper so that it could crystallize for two hours and settled back into my office for a Teams meeting.  

When the meeting was over, I was rewarded with perfectly solidified chocolate modelling paste. More importantly, it did not exhibit any fat separation as I'd experienced with my previous attempt with candy clay. And when I cut off a small piece to taste, I was surprised to find that it had the taste and texture of a standard (creamy) chocolate fudge. I wrapped placed it in a Ziploc bag until I could use it.

Then on Tuesday after supper, I sat down to try making something with it. While I had originally thought about making a rose, as outlined in the Notter book, I ended up trying a teddy bear instead. I weighed out pieces of modelling chocolate for the body, head, ears, arms, legs, and tail, and set about forming them into the appropriate shapes. After adding a bowtie, I also formed a rose for him to carry.

This modelling chocolate was definitely easier to work with than the candy clay I'd tried in the past. It does soften as you work with it and the heat of your hands can make it almost too soft, but it still can be shaped and holds its form far better than the candy clay. And when it is left to set, it sets very firm. 

Now that I've had success with Notter's modelling chocolate, I am wondering if the technique he outlines could be applied to candy clay. Given his directions, it appears that the fat separation I experienced when making candy clay might be been caused by combining the corn syrup with the candy melts while they were still too hot. The only way to know is to try it again at some point in the future. It would be particularly convenient if the modified technique was the solution to this issue -- after all, candy melts come in a wide variety of colours and it would save time over making white modelling chocolate and colouring it as needed. 

In conclusion, I'll definitely make this again when the occasion calls for a cake topper or other decoration. The rose I made may fulfill its destiny (i.e. be eaten) this weekend. 

But as for the teddy bear, I'm not sure I could bit into him. He's just too cute! Would you? Comment below!

Modelling Chocolate

After a few weeks of playing with chocolate in preparation for Easter, I'm back to reading Ewald Notter's The Art of the Chocolatier. I've made it to the third section, which focuses on chocolate showpieces. 

The idea of chocolate showpieces really wasn't on my radar before doing the professional chocolatier program in 2018. It also wasn't part of the curriculum, but one of the instructors had done some training and so it was referenced as something we might pursue as advanced study. Five years later, though, the landscape has changed. Show chocolate has become more and more popular, thanks to social media like Instagram and Tiktok, and reality television series like Great Chocolate Showdown and School of Chocolate. 

In his section on chocolate showpieces, Notter includes a chapter on chocolate décor, including chocolate cigarettes. During my program, I made them once -- not because they were part of the curriculum, but because a colleague asked me if I had ever made them before and so I looked up the technique and gave it a go. The resulting white and dark chocolate "zebra" cigarettes weren't perfect, but they impressed me and her. Notter's book outlines many other options for décor and accessories, including chocolate curls, nests, and spiral cones, to name only a few. I've added some to my list of techniques to try during this year of chocolate.

In the same section on chocolate showpieces, he has a chapter on modelling chocolate, which he notes isn't widely used any more in confectionary work. He doesn't explain why that is the case, but I suppose techniques come in and out of fashion through time. And while Notter may be right that modelling chocolate made with real chocolate and used by professional confectioners is less common, it seems to me that modelling "chocolate" made with colourful candy melts is more common among amateurs as a alternative to fondant, gum paste, and the like (which often doesn't taste very good). It shows up on many cake decorating competitions as a medium for toppers and characters, and it's promoted widely on YouTube baking channels.

And while I have never made real modelling chocolate, I have indeed made the fake, candy-melt kind. 

As I recall, it didn't go well. I wanted black modelling chocolate to decorate a Halloween gingerbread house with a tree and giant spider. The recipe provided by Wilton called for candy melts and corn syrup. I followed it, but for whatever reason, the fat seemed to separate out from the clay and created a whitish film over the black candy mass. Once it cooled and set, I was able to knead it thoroughly and the fat seemed to reincorporate into the mixture, improving its appearance. But I found it incredibly difficult to work with.

The more I kneaded it and worked with it, the softer the candy clay became, eventually having the consistency of chewing gum. I had imagined being able to mold it around a wire or plastic straw form to create the tree trunk and limbs, but as it got softer and softer (presumably from the heat of my hands), it became harder and harder to get it to stick to the base. Eventually I maneuvered it into place, but I was disappointed with the end result. I had always understood modelling chocolate (or candy clay) to be more firm and stable than fondant, but that certainly wasn't the case for me. 

That said, it would be interesting to know how modelling chocolate made with real couverture would perform. Would it suffer from the same issues resulting from hot hands melting chocolate crystals? Or would it be more stable as a result of the proportions of sugar, glucose, and chocolate? Notter provides a few recipes in his book, as well as instructions for how to use it, like forming roses and rolled shapes. 

I guess there's only one way to find out -- and that's to add real modelling chocolate to the growing list of chocolate techniques to try!

Abstract Expressionist Dinosaur Eggs

Last year, I made two flavours of Easter eggs: peanut butter fudge and strawberry cream. I was happy with the final products, but the process was incredibly frustrating. One egg mold I used, with 6 half-egg wells, was made of silicone. While I loved the decorative pattern it produced, the mold itself was floppy and hard to work with. (The solution to this issue is to cut silicone molds into pieces, but I find it very hard to dismember them despite knowing it will make my life easier.) I also used 4 half-egg polycarbonate molds. These are much easier to work with because of the rigid plastic, but you're limited by the number of molds you have and tempering chocolate for several small batches can be time consuming. So, after making all of my eggs last year, I ordered a new polycarbonate mold with 12 wells and tucked it away for Easter 2023. (I pause this blog so that Present Self can thank Past Self for looking out for Future Self...)

As I planned for this year's eggs, I realized that the new mold would change the techniques that I could use. I would be able to shell the molds the way were were taught to in my professional chocolatier program -- that is, fill the wells, invert the mold, and tap out the excess chocolate, instead of "painting" the chocolate into the molds. This got me thinking that I should try decorating the molds as well, as we did for assignments. But I needed inspiration.

After trying Hummingbird Chocolate a few weeks ago and remembering the chocolatiers who inspired me during my program, I decided to riff on Brandon Olsen's (CXBO) disco eggs. Having received a set of oil-based food colouring for my birthday, I purchased a small quantity of white chocolate and coloured it orange and teal -- orange to reflect the flavour of the eggs and teal because it's one of my favourite springtime colours. After polishing my polycarbonate molds, I grabbed a fork and used it to splatter chocolate over the molds in the abstract expressionist style associated with Jackson Pollock. (Side note: Brandon Olsen would have done this using coloured cocoa butter, not coloured chocolate, but I was making do with what I had.)

Next, I tempered some dark chocolate and shelled the eggs, using my drywall taping knife to clean the molds. (Don't worry, it's only ever been used for chocolate.) Not only was this significantly easier than last year, but it's also a much cleaner way of working and very efficient. I set the molds aside for a few days. 

When I returned to my project, the first thing I had to do was make the ganache for the centre of the egg. The first batch went off the rails, but the second batch was perfect. Flavoured with orange oil (not extract) and a sprinkling of pulverized freeze dried orange slices, the ganache had an intense, real orange flavour. (One thing that the professional chocolatier program instilled in me is a distaste for artificial flavours.)

Once the eggs were filled and the orange ganache had started to crystallize, I tempered some dark chocolate and capped the eggs, again using my drywall taping knife to remove the excess chocolate. 

The result? Eighteen abstract expressionist dinosaur eggs with creamsicle centres for Easter! I'm loving the way these look and I can't wait to heat up a knife and slice through one later today!

Picture it: Sydney, 2023

In these days of influencers and Instagram, it's common for content creators to project perfection. From flattering angles and elaborate set ups, to expensive equipment and special filters, the content we're being fed doesn't just seem unattainable, it is impossible. Still, many of us consume it like a Reese peanut butter cup (that is, we devour it and want more). 

If that's what you're looking for, my friends, then I'm sorry to inform you that you've come to the wrong place. I don't have special lighting. I don't have the patience to spend more than a minute positioning something for a photo. I'm not going to remove every background object in the camera's view so that you aren't distracted by visual clutter. And I don't hide my fails -- mainly because I hope that as you read about them, you have a bad laugh at my expense.

Picture it: Sydney, 2023. A forty-something aspiring chocolatier has begun Easter prep. Having carefully assembled her ingredients, she is ready to prepare the flavoured ganache that will form the centres of dark chocolate eggs. She dons her skull rag and Birkenstocks, and enters her tiny (7x9) galley kitchen.

As she has done many, many times before, she begins the process to make a beautiful, luxurious, white chocolate-based ganache. She stirs with a whisk, making quick, small circles in the centre of the bowl, coaxing the chocolate and other ingredients into emulsion. And just when it should be pulling together, the unthinkable occurs: the ganache splits. In a most epic fashion. First, it just looks grainy, curdled. But as she tries to whisk it back into shape, it gets worse. About a half inch of oil rises to the surface, with the chocolate solids in a putty-like mound at the bottom. She tries all of the tricks to fix it -- using an immersion blender, adding hot cream... Her efforts are futile. 

Let me tell you, I've never seen anything quite like it. The flavoured oil splashed on my clothing, across the counter, onto the stovetop. I left an oily residue on everything I touched. I ran out of paper towels trying to clean it up and then used a dish towel (which I had to hand wash to remove the orange oil before it could be laundered). 

As a final desperate last-ditch effort, I found some leftover white chocolate in my stash, melted that down, and slowly whisked the split ganache into it. This time I did get an emulsion, but it was still grainy. It was like there were small grains of chocolate that just refused to melt out. Despite the fact that it set up, the mouth feel was terrible. It was a failure.

Now, I'm not used to failures in the kitchen. I was baffled. I was stunned. I was deflated. I got in the car and immediately drove to Bulk Barn to buy more white chocolate to try again another day when the chocolate gods (who I assume are Mayan) will favour me.

But man it stuck with me all day. I read about ways to save split ganache and the causes of it. Had I overheated the chocolate? There's a reason we talk about chocolate being in temper. Did I add my flavour and colouring too soon? Was there something wrong with the chocolate itself? Could I whip it and use it on cake? Was there any saving it? Or was that $14 worth of ingredients down the toilet? (Not literally, of course, because that would cause plumbing issues.)

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the money that bothered me, but the waste of chocolate. Chocolate -- good chocolate -- is precious in a world of confectionary coating masquerading as the real thing. I just couldn't stomach throwing it in the garbage. 

After sleeping on it, I decided to do one last search for techniques to save it. I found one that was unconventional. It suggested chopping up the set ganache, melting it down in a pot directly on the stove, and re-whisking it once it started to melt. It couldn't hurt to try it, so I followed the instructions and watched with vigilance so that the chocolate wouldn't burn. Despite being very effective in creating a good emulsion, it did nothing to sort out the graininess. 

Disappointed, I looked away for a moment to think. There had to be a way to save this ganache. I pride myself on my problem solving, a skill I inherited from my father. No matter the challenge in front of him, he always finds a way to overcome. (He would have made a great engineer.) "Think, Squirrel, think, think, think," I urged myself. And that's when my eyes spied a mesh strainer in the drying rack. Would ganache flow through the tiny holes? Would it still set with some of the solids removed?  With nothing to lose, I poured the entire pot of melted ganache through the strainer and into a bowl. And sure enough, the resulting mixture looked just as smooth as it should have the first time. I grabbed a small spoon and sampled it. All traces of graininess gone. I gave it one last whisk and put it on top of my toaster oven to set while I started a new batch to use in this year's Easter eggs.

You see, this ganache definitely doesn't meet my quality standards for this year's "production run" given everything it's been through (or should I say everything we've both been through together), but at least now I can use it in a dessert. Maybe an orange chocolate tart with a cookie crust...

Some days, being a chocolatier isn't all truffles and pralines. Some days, it's humility and perseverance. 

The orange truffle tart with cookie crumb crust and vanilla bean whipped cream. Not bad for a fail. Tastes like a Creamsicle or Buried Treasure.