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Last week I started thinking a lot about fear. I noticed an obituary (don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about death) for Jerilyn Ross, a therapist and “Advocate for the Anxious.” She had become an advocate after becoming a sufferer. While visiting Salzburg (home of my previously mentioned favorite tourist attraction—“The Sound of Music” tour,) she was overcome by an overwhelming fear of heights. Not very convenient when vacationing in the Alps, I’d imagine. She later became known as the “phobia lady” and founded an organization that raised the public profile (and funds) for everything from social anxiety to O.C.D. to post-traumatic stress. These are conditions we are all familiar with now. It seems so odd that 30 years ago these disorders were still being figured out and the sufferers suffered shamefully and alone. Oh dear, I’m not talking about death, but this is a little sad.
I’ve had various fears over the course of my life, but what is so strange to me is just how fluid the fears are. For example, when I was a kid I loved to swim. Pool, ocean, pond—I had no issues. Now when I’m at the beach I wouldn’t consider diving in. Okay, ruining my blow-out factors into my resistance, but I think fear is what turns the hesitation into refusal. What happened between eight years old and twenty years old to turn me from a fish to a landlubber? My niece put the question perfectly, “you like to drink water so why don’t you like to go in the water?” I really don’t know.
I used to suffer from fear of heights, or acrophobia as the professionals call it. Years ago I was taken to Windows on the World for dinner and insisted on sitting with my back to the Windows. Now, when I’m on a high perch I don’t really think about it. Granted, I wouldn’t relish the idea of being on a rooftop 80 stories above the ground but my heart wouldn’t race. What happened there? I never did any cognitive behavioral therapy to overcome my phobia. It just kind of drifted away by itself to be replaced by….
Claustrophobia. I now cannot be in close, crowded places without my pulse quickening. The biggest offenders are elevators and subways, but a new twist is theaters. If I’m not sitting on an aisle I need to be sitting next to people I know who are sitting on the aisle. Make sense? I’d guess not if you don’t have this specific issue. I can’t be in the middle of a row surrounded by strangers because what if there is an emergency and I have to get out? Like what if all of a sudden I have to go to the bathroom or feel like I’m going to be sick or just need to get some air so “pardon me, ‘scuse me” please let me out of here!
Just writing that made me anxious. Speaking of anxious let’s talk about flying. Air travel combines the best of all the phobias—you have the closed in of claustrophobia, the 35,000 feet above sea level of acrophobia and the lack of control of, well, lack of control says it all. Again, my fear of flying comes in waves and then goes away for years. There was one Christmas vacation in the late 80’s when a flight to Key West involved two connections and two perfectly timed Xanax. Until one flight was delayed so another Xanax was necessary and then the flight was completely cancelled and there I was in the Memphis airport on Christmas day unable to walk a straight line. I slept at the Radisson for 13 hours straight while my family enjoyed the meal vouchers without me. Yet a few years later I flew round-trip to LA alone with no problem at all. Where’d the fear go? The fact is, the fear may be back but I never go anywhere so I have no way of testing my theory. Although, maybe that’s actually why I don’t go anywhere—for fear the fear has returned. I’m afraid this will remain a mystery until I win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Honolulu on a game show.
The presence of the above mentioned phobias doesn't really affect my day-to-day life. But when a certain anxiety threatened my sweet tooth I had to take action. I can live without air travel and pool diving and I can always find an aisle seat (even if I have to sit in the first or last row of the theater) but I cannot live without caramel. My fear started when I attempted a recipe I’d already made a handful of drama-free times and found myself so skittish and paralyzed around the boiling hot sugar that I let the mixture soar to the soft crack stage (270-290 degrees) ruining both the caramel and the pot I was cooking it in. I’m not sure why this happened. It might have been the pressure I was under. My mother, a wonderful PR woman for her daughter, had done such an effective sales pitch that one of her friends had commissioned a batch. It’s one thing when I decide on my own to take on a project involving a candy thermometer and 100% of my attention, it’s another when I know there is an expectant mouth and $10 worth of Callebaut chocolate at stake.
This resistance to candy making has really been cramping my style. I have a pile of confectionery recipes that I’ve been dying to try but have shied away from for fear of ruining another pot and acknowledging that my sweet tooth skill-set is missing a skill. I figured the best way to conquer my fear was to take a baby-step, sort of my own cognitive behavioral therapy. Why not try making the thing that caused me the anxiety in the first place but also the thing I know I really can make successfully? So, to that end, I took out the thermometer, used my Le Creuset pot (the best for caramel making I’ve found) and overcame my molten sucrose phobia. I’d like to thank the late Jerilyn Ross for helping to change society’s thinking and for creating an environment in which I need not suffer in silence. If only getting over every fear tasted this good.
Note: These are sweet, salty, chewy and chocolate-y and not for denture wearers. If you scorch your pot do not worry. Get as much off with hot water as you can then fill the pot with a little dish soap and water, about half way, and bring to a boil. All of the burnt sugar and chocolate will come right off. See my before and after below.
Don't Be Scared Salted Chocolate Caramels
Gourmet, December 2006
Ingredients
2 cups heavy cream
10 1/2 oz fine-quality dark chocolate (no more than 60% cacao if marked), finely chopped
1 3/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon pieces
2 teaspoons flaky sea salt such as Maldon
Vegetable oil for greasing
Directions
Line bottom and sides of an 8-inch straight-sided square metal baking pan with 2 long sheets of crisscrossed parchment.
Bring cream just to a boil in a 1- to 1 1/2-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat, then reduce heat to low and add chocolate. Let stand 1 minute, then stir until chocolate is completely melted. Remove from heat.
Bring sugar, corn syrup, water, and salt to a boil in a 5- to 6-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, uncovered, without stirring but gently swirling pan occasionally, until sugar is deep golden, about 10 minutes.
Tilt pan and carefully pour in chocolate mixture (mixture will bubble and steam vigorously). Continue to boil over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until mixture registers 255°F on thermometer, about 15 minutes.
Add butter, stirring until completely melted, then immediately pour into lined baking pan (do not scrape any caramel clinging to bottom or side of saucepan).
Let caramel stand 10 minutes, then sprinkle evenly with sea salt. Cool completely in pan on a rack, about 2 hours.
Carefully invert caramel onto a clean, dry cutting board, then peel off parchment. Turn caramel salt side up.
Lightly oil blade of a large heavy knife and cut into 1-inch squares.
Yield: 64 caramels
More notes: Additional sea salt can be pressed onto caramels after cutting.
Caramels keep, layered between sheets of parchment or wax paper, in an airtight container at cool room temperature 2 weeks or they can be wrapped in 4-inch squares of wax paper; twist ends to close.
I’ve never been a big animal person. As a little girl I wasn’t interested in teddy bears, and I didn’t collect glass wild kingdom figurines or go through a horse-obsessed stage. When I was eleven, my eight year-old sister was granted her wish and given a dog. “Jessica’s Lady McDuff” (a.k.a. “Duffy”) was a Cairn Terrier who never weighed more than 13 pounds. Frankly, I was indifferent about her, as she only added to the chaos of an apartment containing three kids and two parents. She barked incessantly, nipped at ankles, and ripped up book jackets or wallpaper, whichever was closer to her very low mouth level. 
Duffy succumbed to stomach cancer at just ten years old, after a life of tummy issues brought on by her stealth consumption of a large chicken bone. She died the year my sister was to leave for college. That timing, the childhood to adulthood transition, only made her death more poignant and pointed. It was as if she was saying to her mistress, “I’ve done my job. Go forth. You can do this without me.” When we gathered as a family and buried her ashes under a tree in our backyard, I caught myself off-guard when tears sprung from my eyes as my mother said, “Godspeed Duffy.” I’m tearing up right now at the memory.Years later, my brother phoned my parents from college to say he’d adopted a dog from the pound and would be bringing her home when he graduated in a few months. My mother wasn’t happy—her nest had quieted down and she wondered whether this was really the best move for a guy about to enter the real world. Much to her surprise she, like the rest of us, fell in love with my brother’s “Lucy,” a sleek, sweet, and lovely black Lab and Greyhound (maybe—we were never sure) mix. She really felt more like the family dog and my father often remarked that she seemed to have so much to say. If only she could speak. Lucy gamely accompanied my brother on cross-country road trips and moved with him from the Upper West Side to Hell’s Kitchen, Brooklyn, and ultimately, Florida. It was there that she became a grand old lady and lived out her last days. Lucy’s death was hard on everyone but truly awful for my brother. In a way, the rest of us were spared that last good-bye, since it happened a thousand miles away. On the other hand, we never had a chance to say that last good-bye.
This week marked the loss of another loving black dog. My dear friend Rich had to put down his beloved 15 year old Lab, also named “Lucy.” She and a Chocolate Lab called “Barney” became his when a three month house/dog sitting stint turned into a permanent arrangement. If Lucy was the good little girl Barney was the kid with ADHD and every other behavioral disorder. He was a good soul but more than a handful, and too much for one person to handle in a small New York apartment. I won’t lie. When Rich took on the role as master of two pooches I was not happy. My clothes were covered in dog hair. My eyes puffed up with allergies and, frankly, I felt like this dynamic duo was getting more attention than I was. Maybe I should have tried knocking over the kitchen garbage can or shredding the slipcovers with my bare teeth. When Barney was adopted by country folk it was the first time Rich’s Lucy got to play the leading lady. She inhabited the part perfectly and became his best friend, loyal sidekick, and greatest joy. This last year was a struggle for her as she was plagued with Lab-related health issues. Through it all, she was a stoic trooper. Then she decided she had had enough, and she let Rich know it was time for her to go.
Again, I surprised myself with my reaction. Going with Rich to the vet as Lucy drifted off to peace was heart-wrenching in so many ways. This angel of a dog, who I once yelled at for drooling on my satin pantsuit as we were leaving for a wedding, was so ready to go but that doesn’t mean the man who loved her so much was prepared to say good-bye.
After telling various people about Rich’s Lucy’s death I was stunned by just how many of my male friends had gone through this exact experience in the last year or so. These men are big, athletic guys with wicked senses of humor tinged with more than a little edge, yet they were all brought to their knees by the loss of their canine pals: “the most miserable experience of my life,” “the worst day of my life,” “I miss my guy every day,” “I can think of a few real family members it would have been easier to euthanize.” Everyone talked about copious tears and enormous feelings of loss and sadness that took a long time to fade and have never fully disappeared. What is it about the connection between a man and his dog that is so primal and so intense? Is it the unconditional love? Could it be the unshakable loyalty? Is it that any feeling or personality trait can be projected onto a dog’s mute canvas? I don’t know but I have come to realize that it’s one of the most powerful and emotional relationships many men have.
Let's celebrate Adam's Vinnie (1996-2008),
Chip's Otis (1996-2010),
and Michael's Gussie (1999-2009).
I‘ve been told that Rich’s late mother, whom I was not fortunate enough to know, was a wonderful cook and caring baker. She made a signature thimble cookie to celebrate a lucky person, or to cheer someone up or to cheer someone else on. Ironically, she once made some for family friends whose own dog devoured the entire batch before the humans had a chance to enjoy a single one!
So to honor man’s best friend, and in the hopes of easing the pain of all those who’ve recently lost their devoted dogs, I attempted these special cookies. They are so pretty and melt-in-your-mouth good, that they’re bound to make anyone feel better. As you can see, they lived up to their reputation and put a little smile on Rich's face.
And Lucy, I want to apologize for snapping at you when you drooled on my pantsuit—you were right, it was hideous. I should have taken the hint and changed. Godspeed sweet girl.
We Love Lucy (and Duffy, Lucy, Vinnie, Gussie, & Otis) Rich's Mother's Thimble Cookies
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
3/4 cup superfine sugar
3/4 cup butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup shortening (I went to Whole Foods and found an organic, non hydrogenated, trans fat free one)
3 cups all purpose flour
3 egg yolks
1 bag Ghiradelli 60% Cacao Chocolate Chips (Rich's mom used Nestle's but I'm sure if they'd had Ghiradelli when she used to bake them she would have chosen the better chocolate!)
Directions
Preheat oven to 375. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper.
In electric mixer beat yolks with whisk attachment until pale and lemon colored.
Change to paddle or regular attachments and add sugar and beat well.
Add butter and shortening and beat until creamy.
Add 1 cup of flour and beat well.
Add remaining flour and mix well.
Using two teaspoon size ice cream scoop portion out cookies and then roll dough into 1 1/2" balls.
Press open end of thimble (or pastry tube tip) into top of cookie and place one chocolate chip so that it sits on top of cookie surrounded by impression made by thimble/pastry tip. Press lightly to adhere to dough.
Bake for 17-20 minutes until pale golden.
Do not overbake. Cool cookies on pan for a few minutes, then transfer cookies to wire rack and cool completely.
Yield: 5 dozen cookies
I just had the worst night’s sleep and then woke up on the wrong side of the bed. When I say wrong side of the bed I really mean the opposite of the right side. I have slept on the right side of my bed ever since I graduated from a twin to a big- girl bed 25 years ago. Even when my sister and I shared a bedroom, and slept in twin beds, I slept in the bed to her right. But today I woke up on the left.
Now, people may wonder why, since I live alone, I need to choose a side at all. Hey, I have the whole queen sized place to myself! I could sleep diagonally, or smack in the middle, or flop from side to side like a fish without water. No. First of all I like an edge. I like being near the edge of the bed just in case I have to make a quick exit. What if the smoke detector goes off and I have to jump out and crawl out of my burning apartment? I wouldn’t want to waste time first scrambling to the edge of the bed before being able to drop and roll. Also there’s the matter of my decorative pillows. Of the eight pillows on my bed I only sleep on two. What do I do with the other six? I push five of them to the left side and pretend one of them is a headboard. And it’s kind of cozy having them piled so close by.
But the real question is why I had to sleep on the wrong side in the first place-- my radiator. Anyone who knows anything about old New York City apartment buildings knows about the terrors of steam heat: the hiss, clang and bang of the steam moving through the pipes as it fills your apartment with enough heat to warm a greenhouse but without any of the moisturizing humidity. I live on a high floor which seems to encase every riser in my building. If you place your hand on the walls in my bedroom they are literally warm to the touch and for that reason I never turn on my heat. But, apparently, even without opening the valve on your radiator you still get to experience the Chinese water torture effects.
The other night I heard a few tell-tale clangs of the pipe indicating what was to come next; imagine if you filled a coffee can with pennies and shook it like you were making a martini (which you’ll need to get through the night anyway). My first reaction is always, “No, no, no! Please no!” And then the next step is to give in and turn the radiator on. What is crazy is the hiss that blows out of the pipes when I turn that hot valve clockwise—as if the radiator has been holding its breath for months.
The good news is that it stops the pennies in a coffee can syndrome. The bad news is that my bedroom gets so hot I have had to come up with a jury rigged measure to prevent myself from turning into a prune overnight. Pillows get placed in front of the radiator and a blanket is stuffed into any remaining gaps. Then I throw open the window, take a Clonapin, situate myself as far away from the heat as possible (i.e. the wrong side of the bed), and hope for the best.
So, when I woke up in the morning I was totally disoriented and collided into a wall before finding my way to the coffee maker. With skin like a snake’s and eyes like sandpaper I rehydrated and tried to stop walking on an angle. And then I got to thinking about how something as seemingly minor as switching sides can cause you to look at your day, or even your life, in a new way. My nieces were coming over in the afternoon and I wanted to bake them a treat. There’s a recipe that’s been in my files for a year since I saw Martha whip it together on the Today Show. However, it’s for brownies and I’ve already declared the Barefoot Contessa’s to be definitive in the brownie category. But, here I am with a slightly new perspective and why not give them a try? Isn’t there room for improvement in everything we do? It seems as if I’ve been acting a little like my father; he gives my mother a hard time whenever she tries a “new” roast chicken, ("why’d you bother? The kind you always make is great.”) Who am I to decide to rest on Ina Garten’s laurels and call it a day? Plus her brownies tend to be a little intense for the taste buds of very junior palates.
These are made completely differently from any other brownies and use cream to replace some of the butter. They are indeed very fudgy and were a big hit with the nieces. Please note appreciative smile instead of "I don't yike my cupcake" grimace. 
For the more mature eater they’re kind of fun to serve in wedges warm out of the pan (better for nicer entertaining too) with some minty or coffee ice cream to balance out the sweetness.
I like the idea of seeing old things with new eyes. But I’ll still be sleeping on the right side of the bed—as long as my radiator lets me.
Wrong Side of the Bed Fudgy Skillet Brownies
Adapted Everyday Food, March 2009
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
1 1/4 cups sugar
3 large eggs
1 cup all purpose flour (spooned and leveled)
1/4 cup Dutch process cocoa (like Droste) (spooned and leveled)
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 Tablespoon unsalted butter
1/4 cup half and half
8 ounces Ghiradelli 60% Cacao Chips (about 3/4 of a bag)
Directions
Preheat oven to 350
In large bowl whisk together sugar and eggs. Set aside.
In medium bowl whisk together flour, cocoa and salt. Set aside.
In a medium oven proof non stick skillet (10" or so) bring butter and cream to a simmer.
Add chocolate and stir constantly until melted. Take off heat and let cool 5 minutes.
With plastic spoon or rubber spatula, scrape chocolate mixture into egg/sugar mixture and whisk until blended. Set aside skillet.
Fold flour mixture into chocolate mixture until dry ingredients are fully incorporated.
Scrape batter back into reserved skillet.
Bake 35 minutes until toothpick/tester comes out clean.
Serve from skillet slightly warm or at room temperature using non metal spatula to cut and serve. (NOTE-this is where I screwed up and forgot I was using a non-stick skillet...it now has a gouge from my knife and probably should be tossed.)
Last week I started thinking a lot about fear. I noticed an obituary (don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about death) for Jerilyn Ross, a therapist and “Advocate for the Anxious.” She had become an advocate after becoming a sufferer. While visiting Salzburg (home of my previously mentioned favorite tourist attraction—“The Sound of Music” tour,) she was overcome by an overwhelming fear of heights. Not very convenient when vacationing in the Alps, I’d imagine. She later became known as the “phobia lady” and founded an organization that raised the public profile (and funds) for everything from social anxiety to O.C.D. to post-traumatic stress. These are conditions we are all familiar with now. It seems so odd that 30 years ago these disorders were still being figured out and the sufferers suffered shamefully and alone. Oh dear, I’m not talking about death, but this is a little sad.
I’ve had various fears over the course of my life, but what is so strange to me is just how fluid the fears are. For example, when I was a kid I loved to swim. Pool, ocean, pond—I had no issues. Now when I’m at the beach I wouldn’t consider diving in. Okay, ruining my blow-out factors into my resistance, but I think fear is what turns the hesitation into refusal. What happened between eight years old and twenty years old to turn me from a fish to a landlubber? My niece put the question perfectly, “you like to drink water so why don’t you like to go in the water?” I really don’t know.
I used to suffer from fear of heights, or acrophobia as the professionals call it. Years ago I was taken to Windows on the World for dinner and insisted on sitting with my back to the Windows. Now, when I’m on a high perch I don’t really think about it. Granted, I wouldn’t relish the idea of being on a rooftop 80 stories above the ground but my heart wouldn’t race. What happened there? I never did any cognitive behavioral therapy to overcome my phobia. It just kind of drifted away by itself to be replaced by….
Just writing that made me anxious. Speaking of anxious let’s talk about flying. Air travel combines the best of all the phobias—you have the closed in of claustrophobia, the 35,000 feet above sea level of acrophobia and the lack of control of, well, lack of control says it all. Again, my fear of flying comes in waves and then goes away for years. There was one Christmas vacation in the late 80’s when a flight to Key West involved two connections and two perfectly timed Xanax. Until one flight was delayed so another Xanax was necessary and then the flight was completely cancelled and there I was in the Memphis airport on Christmas day unable to walk a straight line. I slept at the Radisson for 13 hours straight while my family enjoyed the meal vouchers without me. Yet a few years later I flew round-trip to LA alone with no problem at all. Where’d the fear go? The fact is, the fear may be back but I never go anywhere so I have no way of testing my theory. Although, maybe that’s actually why I don’t go anywhere—for fear the fear has returned. I’m afraid this will remain a mystery until I win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Honolulu on a game show.
The presence of the above mentioned phobias doesn't really affect my day-to-day life. But when a certain anxiety threatened my sweet tooth I had to take action. I can live without air travel and pool diving and I can always find an aisle seat (even if I have to sit in the first or last row of the theater) but I cannot live without caramel. My fear started when I attempted a recipe I’d already made a handful of drama-free times and found myself so skittish and paralyzed around the boiling hot sugar that I let the mixture soar to the soft crack stage (270-290 degrees) ruining both the caramel and the pot I was cooking it in. I’m not sure why this happened. It might have been the pressure I was under. My mother, a wonderful PR woman for her daughter, had done such an effective sales pitch that one of her friends had commissioned a batch. It’s one thing when I decide on my own to take on a project involving a candy thermometer and 100% of my attention, it’s another when I know there is an expectant mouth and $10 worth of Callebaut chocolate at stake.
This resistance to candy making has really been cramping my style. I have a pile of confectionery recipes that I’ve been dying to try but have shied away from for fear of ruining another pot and acknowledging that my sweet tooth skill-set is missing a skill. I figured the best way to conquer my fear was to take a baby-step, sort of my own cognitive behavioral therapy. Why not try making the thing that caused me the anxiety in the first place but also the thing I know I really can make successfully? So, to that end, I took out the thermometer, used my Le Creuset pot (the best for caramel making I’ve found) and overcame my molten sucrose phobia. I’d like to thank the late Jerilyn Ross for helping to change society’s thinking and for creating an environment in which I need not suffer in silence. If only getting over every fear tasted this good.
Don't Be Scared Salted Chocolate Caramels
Bring cream just to a boil in a 1- to 1 1/2-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat, then reduce heat to low and add chocolate. Let stand 1 minute, then stir until chocolate is completely melted. Remove from heat.
Bring sugar, corn syrup, water, and salt to a boil in a 5- to 6-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, uncovered, without stirring but gently swirling pan occasionally, until sugar is deep golden, about 10 minutes.
Tilt pan and carefully pour in chocolate mixture (mixture will bubble and steam vigorously). Continue to boil over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until mixture registers 255°F on thermometer, about 15 minutes.
Add butter, stirring until completely melted, then immediately pour into lined baking pan (do not scrape any caramel clinging to bottom or side of saucepan).
Carefully invert caramel onto a clean, dry cutting board, then peel off parchment. Turn caramel salt side up.
Lightly oil blade of a large heavy knife and cut into 1-inch squares.
Yield: 64 caramels
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