In school holiday mode, my teenage son and I got together with cooking chocolate, marshmallows, chewy fruit sweets, glace cherries and nuts.
We melted the chocolate, bit by bit in the microwave making sure not to burn it. Stirred a lot, licked our fingers a bit and tried a few marshmallows for quality control.
Chocolate melted, we threw everything into the big glass bowl with the chocolate and stirred with the largest wooden spoon we had. Concrete wasn’t made this well. This was a mammoth rocky road in the making!
As we were troweling it onto the obligatory greese-proof papered tray with the forklift truck we hired for the occasion, my hubby came home from work. Like any good bloke, he inspected our work.
“The pieces are too big, they’re supposed to be chopped up.”
I had to silently admit, it was a tad difficult getting the marshmallows to submerge beneath the chocolate with the rest of the ingredients. I grabbed a meat cleaver and hacked away a bit until the marshmallows looked more like the ones you get to put onto the top of hot chocolate. Gravel sized.
The chocolate was setting already as it’s winter here and the temperature hadn’t risen above what felt like minus five (although it was more like 10 degrees C), so I shoved a few of the white marshmallows-iceberg shapes down into the hardening mixture with a: “There, that’s great.”
The meat cleaver came in handy again smoothing the whole thing over like badly mixed concrete.
It really was looking like rocky road by this point though! Well, more like a bad road job, if I have to be honest, but tempting nevertheless, so I slid it into the fridge, more to stop me eating it than anything else. Plus I didn’t want to give the foreman the chance to criticize it again. Not before it had set and I’d cut it up into more respectable bricks.
My son, bored with it all by now, slunk back to his room where his computer game was luring him with Siren calls.
Fifteen minutes later the rocky road was hard. Quicker than any council job.
Cleaver in hand, I eagerly hacked away. At this point my son rejoined the task, wanting to “help”. Wanting to devour, more like.
Despite my hacking attempts, they were still boulders. Big, fat, chocolate boulders. Rocks as big as your hand. They’d build a road the Romans would be proud of.
I took a piece and chewed silently for five minutes on a mouthful of conglomerated lollies. Looking at my son, his jaw was aching with the task too.
Better let the foreman have a try. I took him a couple of the daintier pieces, so as not to offend his sense of proportion.
“Still too big. I told you, you should have cut them smaller.”
“I did cut them smaller.”
“Well, not small enough.”
“I’ll cut them smaller next time.”
“I’ll make the next lot.”
“Oh,” I took the plate of rocks away from him. “Nothing like dis-empowering your workers by taking the job off them without giving them the chance to improve on their last attempt.”
“What are you on about?” He looked at me as if I’d got bricks in my head.
“Nothing… Anyway, it’s Rocky Road. That’s R.O.C.K.S. not pebbles. It’s not Pebbly Road. It’s Rocky Road.”
Again that look.
Next time he can make his own rocky road.
But next time, I’m making a four lane highway.