After a long weekend of eating (not one, but TWO Thanksgiving meals) and food-related tension (vegans vs. carnivores: the showdown), I cooked a basic pot roast last night. While looking up the recipe, I noticed a simple recipe for lush, puddingy hot chocolate, like they make in Europe, the kind characters in eighteenth-century novels enjoy. So when the girls started their nightly litany (“Cam I have something to dessert?” —Vivi; “Did I eat enough for, you know, D-E-S-S-E-R-T?” —Lily), I capitulated.
Holy cup of chocolate. We drink a lot of hot chocolate, but words can’t describe how good this was. Simple, simple: cream, chocolate, a little sugar, and a marshmallow toasted on the burner. Together: whoa. The girls ran through every superlative they could think of. Wes scarfed it down, grunted, and fell into a chocolate coma on the couch. I just kept shaking my head as I scraped my tiny mug clean.
It’s the perfect illustration of the epigraph for this blog. Talking about the hot chocolate makes it even better.
If you want to experience it yourself, it’s worth buying the whole cookbook, Sarah Foster’s Fresh Every Day. The pot roast wasn’t bad, either.