Kristian and I spent the day, yesterday, hanging out with a couple of friends, making truffles. I supposed that I should say that we hung out with them while they made truffles, because they are actually culinary people who have had formal training and aren’t pre-disposed towards melting butter in the microwave when you’re supposed to just be softening it up (I steadfastly maintain that I set the power level to ten percent. I have no idea how things got so melty). Kristian made most of dinner. I was a bit like dead weight…
… Until it was time to shape the truffles. And then it was Hope’s time to shine! You see, I have abnormally cold hands. Hands that are as cold as ice. Hands (and feet, actually) that make Kristian shriek when I use his belly or back to warm them up. Hands that would make Edward Cullen himself go, “Damn, that’s cold.”
Hands like mine tend to be a definite liability when it comes to touching other people and not making them flinch. But, when it comes to shaping truffles? Let’s just say that my friend gave up on the whole shaping the truffles thing when his gloves were coated in chocolate (tasty, tasty chocolate) after only shaping a few. So, he stuck to portioning out the chocolate while my cold hands did their thing. Sometimes these ice digits are a blessing and not a curse.
Those truffles were delicious.
Nicely shaped, too.
Ha, you have the opposite condition of me. My hands are ALWAYS warm – that includes after long walks through cold weather. On especially cold days when I go dancing I get this conversation a lot:
“Oh, my hands are cold, I’m sorry.”
“Here, take mine”
“WOW, your hands are so WARM!”
“I am but a radiant font of heat.”