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How do you make cocoa?
There is no such thing as a dumb question, right? Or so I tell myself that given I always seem to be the one on the asking end, never the being-asked end where I might get to internally pass judgment and assess, man, now that's a stupid question if I ever heard one!
I posed the written cocoa question to a gentle soul I figured would know and be as kind as she would be quick with a delicate response.
I prefaced the inquiry with an apology of sorts.
"This may sound like a goofy question, but it is coming from me after all …"
I was trying to be Boy Scout prepared here, you see, attempting to have enough information to speak with authority to my Trunk-or-Treat kitchen crew of two at church that, "OK, girls, this is how it's done! Not to worry! All is well!"
This is the best and easiest way to make a big giant batch or two of hot chocolate so we can extend a little Halloween hospitality to all those trick-or-treaters who are going to be coming through the church parking lot on Saturday.
It's like every recipe, if you ask me -- basically you just mix it all up and hope for the best. Punt!
A prayer or two proves helpful, naturally.
A cocoa recipe. Now there's another one that ought to have a place of prominence in the old Janice Kiaski I'm-A-Failure Cookbook, somewhere right in between recipes for toast, hard-boiled eggs and a Fried Circle Steak, Cheese and Mustard Sandwich for One (Because I'm Not Sharing.)
I like to help plan events, but the food part is always a struggle, especially when you're talking quantity.
Math and making something -- yikes! Double dreadful.
I'm pretty sure no one is going to want too much of something I have very little knowledge about making, cocoa included.
We went round the mulberry bush over ideas for food to offer trunk-or-treaters once they'd made their rounds to the cars, ultimately deciding on seasonal beverages.
Personally, I've been too costume-preoccupied to think about food and drink.
I've been investing as much energy in this as Better Half does when it comes to figuring out cutesy, punny Valentine's Day presents for yours truly.
This year I decided to be a hot air balloon, the idea originating with a photo I saw somewhere months back.
I'm reasonably confident no one else will be one.
I found the big box perfect for my balloon basket and stashed it away in a corner of the garage many moons ago, threatening Better Half with a scary outcome if he "mistakenly" recycled it.
He's watched me angst over this getup the past couple weeks especially, offering support and encouragement as only my dear, sweet husband can: "Why don't you just dress up as you?"
Ha, ha, ha, I acknowledge his outfit input, assuring him that going as me would be quite boring. Scary, perhaps, but very boring.
He has monitored my progress nonetheless -- the making of sky and clouds, a lookout sign for Dorothy, mini hot air balloons.
When's he made me feel creatively compromised, I caution that I'll burst into my rendition of Barbra Streisand's "Don't Rain on My Parade."
Even so, he maintains the appeal for me to be me.
"I will be me on Saturday," I assured him.
Me in a hot air balloon, holding a cup of hot chocolate -- I hope.