Damp Squib

Despite a fair amount of Irene-related devastation round and about, up here on the hill we escaped today's hurricane relatively unscathed. A flooded basement and some downed trees were about all we had to show for the storm of the century, which came and went with only a few half-hearted power outages to remind us that Big Things Were Afoot.

The good news is I can now confirm the Wolf works just fine in a blackout, thank you very much. I feel a bit disloyal for ever having doubted the sure-fired sturdiness of my splendid steely stove and have resolved never again to doubt its steadfastness in the face of storms and setbacks.

One problem I am left with, however, is the mountainous supply of non-perishable and hurricane-proof provisions I laid in late last week. The bottled water is no hardship, of course, and the Squid is quite content to live off instant ramen and mac and cheese from a box for as long as needs require. Over time we will happily deplete the chocolate and alcohol inventory and since the fridge was never off for any length of time our perishable items are - as they say - safe as houses.

But I also bought a few cans of sweetened condensed milk for our coffee. I discovered (rather late in the game) that - even in the face of calamity - Sir would rather take his coffee black than pollute it with tinned moo, so I was left with a bit of a conundrum. The milk sat on the kitchen counter all day today, daring me to take some sort of action.

In the time it takes the Coriolis force to develop into a full-blown cyclonic vortex, I had it. Banoffee sauce! You know the stuff: it's the rich, dark, dulce de leche-type substance used as a pie filling with a digestive-biscuit crust, sliced bananas, and mountains of whipped cream. These days traditional pies are off the menu here a chez Fractured Amy, but the sauce has innumerable additional applications. One can make like Jamie Oliver and serve it as a 'mess' with crushed-up meringues, cream and fruit. Top it with bruleed bananas and you've got something really special. Glop it over ice cream or use it as a dipping sauce for apples.

One can even, I believe, it eat straight from the spoon, but I could not possibly confirm such an outrageous rumor. For a gluten freedom-fighter to engage in such greedy behavior would show an utter lack of self-control and disregard for lady-like deportment, wouldn't you agree?

To my knowledge there is only one bona fide way to make banoffee sauce. You take a can of condensed milk and put it on a plate, which you in turn place on the bottom of a big saucepan. You fill the pan with water so the can is completely covered and slap a lid on it. Bring the water to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer it for the rest of the afternoon. Take care not to let the top of the can peek above the water level and in several hours you will be rewarded with fourteen ounces of thick, unctuous caramel goodness.

Oh, I know that some people of an unscientific mien are apt to warn would-be banoffee busters that the can will explode all over the wallpaper if they dare try this time-tested and traditional method. The internet (of course) is full of counterfeit procedures for the over-cautious cook, such as decanting the milk into a water bath for cooking in the oven or even - horrors! - using prepared dulce de leche from a jar.

Stuff and nonsense! I grasped one of the cans firmly and prepared to peel off the label in preparation for its submersion. Guess what met my eye?

Even the manufacturers are climbing aboard the bandwagon of timorousness! How they can justify financially the discouragement of a vital use for their own product I have no idea. I admit, though, to a second of hesitation. Was my luck about to run out, forcing me to scrub molten caramel off kitchen surfaces for all eternity?

I decided to risk it. Since disaster-wise I'd already dodged one bullet this weekend, I resolved boldly to face another and let the banana chips fall where they might. After all, life is just that much more sensational when a bit of danger is thrown into the mix.

Having done the deed, I confess that an hour or so later my confidence waned somewhat. Was it my imagination, or did we all find urgent tasks elsewhere while the pot simmered malevolently on the back burner? I went for two walks to survey damage in town (our local creek will probably burst its banks later tonight, but otherwise the place was quiet this afternoon) and spent a fair amount of time picking up plums and downed branches from the lawn. Sir decided to work upstairs in the farthest reaches of the house and the Kid Squid hid in his room, ostensibly getting himself emotionally prepared for the first day of school (since postponed). Every so often I went to check on the water level in the pot, standing at some distance and tentatively nudging the lid with my longest pair of metal tongs.

But - again! - I need not have worried. At four o'clock I removed the still in-tact can from its bath and, after waiting for it to cool a bit, pulled back its ring tab to survey the elixir within.

Perfection! And with nary a pop or hiss to justify all the scaremongering. We celebrated with great lashings of sauce straight from the spoon.

A practical and family-pleasing use having been found for the condensed milk, I am now left only with my twenty-four hours' worth of surplus butane, which - given its own explosive potential - I would rather not have hanging around the house for too long. Since the cans fit handily on my chef's torch, I foresee a good deal of bruleeing in my future (in addition to the bananas above, there's always traditional creme brulee - now perfected - as well as Modernist Cuisine's recipe for Parmesan Creme Brulee with Onion Sugar, the next egg experiment on my docket).

I suppose I could always take my portable burner camping (there's a first time for everything!) and use the butane in the manner for which it is intended, but that would necessarily require that I venture outdoors.

And haven't you heard?

The weather scares me.