Chocolate Brickle Recipe

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Jungle Dance by Lucy Beale
Jungle Dance by Lucy Beale
I’m excited to share this recipe with you. Yet, I hesitate. I have a pure love affair with these treats. They’re a bit crunchy, taste a bit like toffee, are coated in rich chocolate and are salty. So why do I hesitate? Because some folks have a love-hate affair with them. Meaning that some of the gals at Pat’s office request that he not bring them in to work. Not ever. Not ever again. Why? Because when they know the treats are on his desk, they make excuses to go to the 6th floor to visit his treats. Seems they can’t resist eating them. They insist the treats beacon to them – and in English, of all things. The claim is that they put out a siren call. “Come to me,” “Eat me now.” etc.
I think this is a good thing. Could these folks be so self- deprived of such luscious taste combinations that their senses cry out for more? Mine sure do. Which is why I store them in the freezer. That way they need time to thaw before I can eat them. I defrost only 2 or 3 of the broken pieces at a time. And that’s part of the allure. You can’t cut the treats into orderly squares – you need to break them. All those ragged edges and crumbs are disordered and so, even more alluring.
Cook up a batch for your friends and family. Dinner guests will ooh and ahh over your culinary expertise and creativity. They’ll inhale these treats when you serve them for dessert with a side bowl of ice cream or sorbet.
My joy in preparing these treats is out-of-bounds. For a mere 20 minutes in the kitchen, I feel like a true domestic goddess. With only 5 ingredients, you, too, can bake up these heavenly treats.
PS. I’m not a domestic goddess, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend. I’ve only been on one cooking show in my life. (KSL-5 in Utah)  I wore a flouncy orange ruffled apron and was outdone by the perky morning talk show host who did all the talking for me. But alas, later that month, the pharmacist mentioned the show when I picked up my Rx for bio-identical hormones. Ah, fame.
Saltine crackers – about 1 to 2 sleeves
1 cup sugar
2 sticks butter
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups bittersweet or semi-sweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with aluminum foil. Arrange saltines in a single layer on the foil. In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, melt butter and sugar, stirring constantly until mixture bubbles, about 2-3 minutes.
Remove from heat. Stir in vanilla, then pour mixture evenly over the saltines. Spread with a spatula to evenly cover the saltines. You don’t need to be precise here, just make sure each saltine gets some sauce on it. Place in oven and bake for 7-10 minutes.
Remove from oven, sprinkle chocolate chips evenly over crackers. Let sit for 1-2 minutes to let chocolate melt. With a spatula, spread chocolate over crackers.Cool for 20 minutes, then place tray in freezer. In 3-4 hours, remove from freezer, peel off foil, and break into treat-size pieces. Store treats in freezer or refrigerator.
Variations:
Use milk chocolate chips. Top the melted chocolate with slivered almonds or chopped pecans or walnuts.Top melted chocolate with crushed Heath Bars or Resse’s peanut butter cups.
 Let me know how you would describe these treats and also what you would name them. 

The Forgotten ID Solution

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Pat at Seaport, San Diego
Pat at Seaport, San Diego
Our plane was scheduled to depart for our 4-day San Diego vacation at 7:30 am. We needed to be out of bed by 4:30 am. Pat didn’t get home until 1 am because his business flight was delayed due to snow falling in Salt Lake. He drove home 19 miles in the storm. The snow was so thick that the car couldn’t climb up the driveway and into the garage. We slept fitfully as people often do the night before traveling.
We left the car in the driveway, put our bags in my 4-wheel drive Santa Fe and braved the icy highways in the dark. Within 35 minutes we were at curbside check-in. I’m standing on the sidewalk with the bags, as Pat gets ready to go park the car. I have my driver’s license and a 3-dollar tip in hand.
Sluggish and dopey from jet lag and lack of sleep, he says, “Lucy, get back in the car. We can’t fly. I don’t have my driver’s license.”
“Huh?” was the only response I could think of. My feet were glued to the pavement. I couldn’t move. I also knew I couldn’t hear well. “Huh?”
“Lucy, get back in the car.” I stall. I don’t move. There’s gotta be a way. Somehow there has to be some sort of ID somewhere. I’m dulled witted, but not so dull witted that I’m willing to give up sun, clear air, the ocean, and radiant warmth. Snow keeps falling.
Think, Lulu, think. My brain starts to synapse. Pam. Going to the Cotswolds. Six years ago. “Xerox your driver’s licenses, passports, and credit cards before each trip abroad.” At the time she was leading 12 of us to art class in the UK. “Just toss the papers in your luggage. Just in case.”
That’s it – in case. The papers are in my case. Suitcase. Do you suppose TSA would accept them? We park, pull out the papers, and cross our fingers. The amazingly generous TSA agent looks at the Xeroxed papers and waves Pat on through.
We phoned our neighbors from San Diego and asked them to secure the wallet and lock the car doors. The sun was shining. The air was clear. The ocean was softly roaring. I’m so happy I know Pam.

Snowshoe- Digging Out

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Pat snowshoeing
Pat snowshoeing
‘Shoeing the Sunday after my swoon on the trail, this time up Big Cottonwood Canyon. Roaring sunshine, azure skies. And sparkling glorious bright white fields of snow. We climb through a large stand of pine trees and boulders to a vast meadow sprinkled with stands of white-bark aspens. I’m feeling ecstatic and totally in love. With everything. With life.
We traverse down and across a wide valley and head back on a path through chalets and cabins. Further down we espy a field of pristine untouched snow. It’s squishy like walking on fluffy pillows. I gain energy and joy with each step. I go faster and faster, my arms poling so rapidly, that I feel I’m creating my own breezes.
I’m sure Pat’s right behind me. I stop just before I reach the road, about one-quarter mile from the car. Joyfully breathing hard, I lean against a large snow-capped boulder and pull some dates and dried sour cherries from my pack.
I look back up the hill and don’t see Pat. As I relax, I feel the calmness and sense the glow. I figure he’ll be coming around the bend following in my snowshoe prints. Or he’ll be walking down the road carrying his equipment. No Pat. Could he somehow be stuck up on the trail? I sure hope not. I tell myself that most likely he’s OK. It’s been ten minutes and he’s not down yet. I’ll give it 5 more minutes, then go look for him.
Pat & Lucy Snowshoeing
Pat & Lucy Snowshoeing
Phew, he soon appears walking down the road. Looking comfuggled. Rather than step on the trail I carved, he’d ventured into the soft snow to etch his own way. That fluffy and soft snow. It didn’t hold him and he sunk almost up to his waist. This isn’t supposed to happen with snowshoes on. In fact, it cannot happen when wearing snowshoes.
Even though this could not happen, while I was resting on said boulder savoring sun, fresh air, cherries, and dates, my sweetheart was digging himself out of a big fluffy accidental snow hole. I suppose it’s good I wasn’t there. I would have thought he did it on purpose to amuse me. As he neared, he didn’t look amused.
His journey out of the snow hole wasn’t funny then. But it is today and will be tomorrow. On the drive back home we both smiled. Ah, sun, snow, fresh air, and snow holes. 

Tale of the Christmas Tree

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My husband won the office raffle for an elaborate Christmas tree the company had purchased at the Festival of Trees. All porceeds go to Children’s Primary Hospital in Salt Lake.
Tree in Garage
Tree in Garage
It graced the 7th floor reception area and delighted everyone.
The artificial tree was thick with huge peach, gold, and auburn hand-painted and glittered glass balls, crystal points streaming from flocked and glittered silver leaves, and plenty of tiny white lights all wired onto – you’re not going to believe this – rebar. The kind they use to hold up concrete basements for construction. It didn’t take 2 guys to lift it – it took 3 or 4.
After the haulers delivered it to our garage, the tree stood solidly abandoned and well wrapped for nearly a year until Christmas-party season approached. Pat cleverly scheduled a poker night at our house. His buddies didn’t seem to mind hauling the tree from the garage around to the foyer after the requisite pre-card playing take-out dinner of barbeque ribs, coleslaw, and baked beans. The tree is 9 feet high, and wider at the base than the front door. The fellows only busted off a couple glass balls getting the tree in the front door.
Oh, but that tree was a wonder! Pat loved it. Our party guests oohed and awed. I don’t like the tree so much. The colors are too muted for my outgoing tastes. I consider it to be Pat’s tree. As the weeks went by, I grew to like it less and less. It was like a houseguest who overstayed his or her welcome. Christmas became Epiphany (Jan. 6) became NFL playoff season.
We couldn’t figure out how to get the tree back into the garage. We can’t remove the ornaments since they’re hard-wired on. We can’t pack it in a rolling tree bag, as the bulbs will break. The tree has to be carried out the front door basically as it is.
The freezing temperatures of early January iced up the streets and sidewalks. The tree was too large to take the stairs to the basement. Heck, we couldn’t even figure out how to wrap it for storage. Pat’s plans to find a big roll of that sticky saran wrap caused comic miscommunications.
On January 18 the tree bags I ordered finally arrive from Amazon.com. Pat climbed a ladder and lassoed the bag onto the top of the tree. The bag was tall enough to cover the tree, but not wide enough. With some real-time scissor cutting-and-pasting, the tree was covered. We only thought we had secured the bag to the tree with packing tape.
Pat put out a call for another poker game. Not enough guys could play. I’m biting back tears. I want my house back to normal. I want that tree out of my foyer. I figure the guys instinctively glean that moving the tree is part of the poker-game agenda and find better things to do.
The next Friday’s game is on. Getting down on my knees in prayer did the trick. Miraculously, Friday, January 25, is warm and the ice melts from the street and sidewalk. The guys move the tree. They only break off 3 or 4 bulbs. During the process of carrying the tree out the door stem first, the bag slowly peeled up the tree with each step they took. The tree now stands in the garage somewhat askew. The tree bag covers only the top 3 feet of the tree. Pat can’t pull it down as the branches and packing tape get in the way. I frantically caution my husband about the possibility of all sorts of creatures building nests over the summer in those gorgeous sturdy branches. Engine dust and car fumes could ruin it.
By February 1, Pat mentions he has a huge roll of industrial strength saran wrap coming any day. Fingers crossed it arrives before the nest-building creatures discover some new real estate in Pat’s tree. 

The Snowshoe Swoon

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Star Flurry by Lucy Beale
Star Flurry by Lucy Beale
Last Sunday, for the first time in my life, I swooned. We were 20 minutes into our weekly snowshoeing trek and I felt funny. I told Pat I needed to stop for a moment. Just standing still didn’t help. So I said, “I’ll sit down now.” Right on the side of the trail. I was thinking, “I wonder if I coming down with that flu stuff.” Pat was thinking, “I wonder if Lucy’s coming down with that flu stuff.”
I sat for 5 or 6 minutes, then stood and brushed off my snow pants. The swoon had ceased. Pat said, “Let’s go back down now.” I ‘shoed cautiously through the aspen grove and the pine forest, over the bridge and back to the car, feeling like a super outdoors-person failure. Swooning on the trail? It’s not, well, it’s not what folks around these parts do. I think they’d rather just throw up or whatever and then get on with the trek. But turn around? NEVER.
On the trail, I’d breathed my first fresh air of the week. Down in the valley, we have a January situation that the politicians call low-cloud cover. The rest of us call it heavy-deep-smog pollution. Pat’s and my weekly winter trek fills our lungs with fresh pure mountain air and lets our eyes see the bright REAL sun, which is very different than what shines from my light-box every morning next to my computer screen.
As I progressed to the car. I was not my perky self. I was afraid of what I might have. At the car I mix a packet of  raspberry Emergen-C into a bottle of water . It contains all those important electrolytes and minerals. I’m hoping it’s good for me. Pat drives us down Little Cottonwood Canyon and in 15 minutes we arrive home.
I wait for something more to “happen.” We eat a little lunch, read a bit of the paper. Nothing’s wrong. I feel totally normal. The drama of the swoon faded away. I don’t come down with anything.
We have a great rest-of-our-day. We even go out to restock our pantry with “Costco” luxuries that have now become necessities before I hunker down with the Sunday New York Times Crossword puzzle. Relaxed and in a sense glad that I finally know what a swoon is all about. Not much for now.

Point Zero Painting

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The Wild West
Wild West by Lucy Beale
This process, Zero Point Painting, is designed to provoke pure creativity and bypass my vigilant critical artist self. In childlike mode, my brush paints all manner of oddities: spider ladies, a buccaneer pushing a skeleton overboard, a nun and priest tossing a pilgrim into the fire of the Inquisition. A child calls out from inside a bomb shelter. Crocodiles roam through frozen water. Leeches or fish entwine in primordial cells. The program creator, Michele Cassou, tells me to keep my brush moving. I ask how did all those paintings come out of me?
Lunchtime nears. I look around for the person I’d most like to lunch with. The tall serious blond with pinned up long hair says sure. At the corner health food grocery (this is San Francisco),  we eat salad bar in cardboard take-out containers. She’s a chiropractor from Marin county. And in a couple weeks she’s on her way to Utah for a two-day session with a top-notch chiropractor. I pay close attention. This guy is worth 2-3 days of her time and I assume plenty of her money. And he lives in Utah! I jot his name in my iPhone.
Toward the end of keeping my brush moving for two days I’ve painted detritus from the rafters of my childhood attic, ridden into the depths of weird untested inner canyons, and returned unscathed. I have a dozen or so paintings to take home. (Patrick later said he was concerned that so many monsters appeared. I love those monsters.)
At the wrap-up session, some participants quote their favorite flower-child genre poems about transformation and risk. This is so California. I don’t recite mine. But I’ll share it with you. By Apollinaire,
Come to the edge, he said.
We are afraid, they said.
Come to the edge, he said.
They came.
He pushed them.
And they flew.

Secret Fudge

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Lucy Beale
Lucy Beale
Secret 10-minute fudge. Sshhh!. DO NOT share this. It’s our secret. Try this super delicious fudge for your family, for guests, for potlucks, and for hostess gifts. No one will believe it’s so utterly simple to make, and so elegant to eat.
  • [1/4] cup real butter
  • 2 rounded cups chocolate chips, or cut-up chocolate. Use dark, bittersweet, or milk.
  • 1 tsp. vanilla extract
  • [1/4] tsp. salt
  • 1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
  • 1 cup walnuts or pecans, optional
Melt the butter in a saucepan over low heat. Place the chips in the pan and turn off the stove. Stir to melt the chocolate. Add vanilla and salt. Remove from burner. Stir in sweetened condensed milk. Add nuts. Spoon into 9×9-inch baking pan lined with aluminum foil. That’s all. Let it cool a bit.
Another secret: there are lots of enticing variations:
  • Peppermint fudge: omit nuts and top with crushed peppermint sticks.
  • Penuche: substitute butterscotch chips for chocolate pieces. The fudge will be softer, but oh, so delicious. Add pecans.
  • White fudge: use white chocolate chips. Add pecans, or flaked coconut. Or both.
  • Sea Salt: Sprinkle tops with large grains of sea salt.
  • Toffee: Top fudge with toffee chips.
  • Cocoa nibs: Sprinkle top with cocoa nibs. Warn guests they could be very crunchy.
  • Fruit and/or nut: add chopped dried cherries, apricots, cranberries, raisins to batter.
  • Orange: add candied orange peel to batter.
  • Ginger: add chopped candied ginger to batter.
  • Other possibilities: top with toasted sesame seeds, serve with a dab of wasabi, serve with jam or chutney. Use as a layer between two cookies.
  • More possibilities: use your imagination. 

My Best Friend

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My best friend Heather’s husband, Quinn, thinks I’m a bad influence on her. My husband thinks I am, too. I consider that a compliment, you guys. It’s about time I badly influence something. So there – Catholic school upbringing! 
Blowing in the Wind - woven watercolor
Blowing in the Wind – woven watercolor
Heather and I are thick in a simpatico kind of way. If she says it looks good on me, I go ahead and buy it. And vice verse. We feel things the same way. I attribute this to astrology: We each have 7 planets in the same signs. Otherwise, we are polar opposites. I workout almost every day. Occasionally Heather is a drag along to my Pilates classes. I thrive on healthful foods, fresh veggies, fruit, fish, roasted meats, and purified water. Heather has a healthy appetite for pastas, breads, cheeses, creamy soups, and purified water. She draws the line at dark chocolate, though she loves my cookies. She works about 25 hours a week from home, I write from home when a book contract finds its way to my in-box. Then I write non-stop for 3 months. 
Her bustling home contains said husband, two full-grown adult children, sometimes an aging father, 2 dogs, 2 birds, and 5 or 6 televisions. Patrick and I rumble through our home by ourselves, our children live out-of-Utah, we don’t own a TV, and our only animal was a recently dead and flushed guppy. Our home is usually serene and non-confusing. 
Heather & Lucy in Sedona
Heather & Lucy in Sedona
Heather and I like to go on girlfriend trips. One summer we spent a week at art class in Vermont, another at art class in Sedona, and on yet another, 4 days in Vail. Although, Vail WAS a working vacation and cost each of us only $100. (We stayed at a timeshare, gas was $85 and we shared meals at fine and some not-so-fine restaurants. Clothes were extra.) Every evening, we huddled over her laptop converting paper accounting trails into the miracle of Quicken. In Sedona we drove around for an afternoon trying to locate a cow skull for Heather’s daughter. At the magnificent rock formations and vortices in Sedona, we felt the energy and wisdom of the ancients. Woo-woo. We are nutty, but we draw the line at batty. 
Heather has one thing I want that I can’t buy. She has a grandchild – Nellie. I have even tried bribing our three sons. In the past, my husband and I have treated them plus wives to cool vacations. They ho-hummed and yawned while touring the Vatican, the Acropolis, and Pompeii, but savored the opportunity to learn to party in a new language at night. They hinted they preferred the beach to the ancient wonders of the Mediterranean. 
So I said to Christopher, “Your Dad and I are thinking of taking ya’ll on a beach vacation.” His eyes lit up. I continued, “Once we have a couple toddlers around to enjoy it with.” 
Speaking for all concerned parties, he said, “Lucy, it ain’t gonna happen.” Meaning I’ll have to stay jealous and borrow neighborhood kids to take to the zoo. (I’m still hoping.)
Heather and I are contemplating our next trip: a 10-day art class in Sicily for September. Both our husbands agree, “It ain’t gonna happen.” (I’m still hoping.) 

Perfect Blonde Brownies

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Perfectly satisfying blonde brownies. Yum. I’ve never found a great recipe for these, so I decided to create one. I’m so excited -they are wonderful. Dinner guests can’t get enough. They request take-home boxes. They eat crumbs from the dish. I haven’t noticed anyone lick their plate yet, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.
Lucy’s Blond Brownies are crunchy on the top yet chewy inside. The ingredients tantalize all of one’s taste buds, bitter chocolate, sour dried cherries, sugar for sweetness, salt, an egg and garbanzo bean flour for umami – the protein taste. I didn’t use that all-time tummy thickener – wheat, and instead use oatmeal for health, walnuts for crunch, flavor, and omega-3 essential fatty acids. These brownies are tongue, health, and dinner guest pleasers.Edge Brownie Pan
Bake them in an edge brownie pan that looks like this: it’s a super clever design that assures each brownie has at least two crusty edges.                       
Preheat oven to 360 degrees. (I live at 4700 feet altitude. If you live in lower lands, you may need to lower your oven to 350 degrees.)
  • [2/3] cup real butter                     
  • [1/2] cup dark brown sugar
  • [1/2] cup sugar
  • 1 egg
  • 1 TB. vanilla extract
  • 1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats (if you need to avoid gluten, substitute 1 cup almond flour)
  • 2 TB. bran, either oat, corn, or wheat
  • 2 TB. garbanzo bean flour
  • [1/2] tsp. salt
  • 1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips
  • [3/4] cup dried tart (or sour) cherries
  • 1 cup walnuts (I like mine in large pieces) 
Cream butter and sugar, add egg and vanilla. Stir in oatmeal, bran, and bean flour. If the batter is too runny, add another tablespoon of bran and/or bean flour. Gently stir in chocolate chips, cherries, and walnuts. 
Spread batter in a buttered or oiled “edge brownie pan”. Bake for 25-30 minutes. (If you live closer to sea level, your baking time could be shorter – 20-25 minutes.) When done, the top should be lightly browned with the brownies beginning to separate from the sides of the pan. 
When mostly cool, eat deliciously and slowly so you can sense all the gustatory delights of these winners. They are so appealing that I strictly limit myself to one largish 2×2-inch square a day after my evening meal. Or maybe two.

Yoga by the Bay

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Whoa! Everyone in the hotel is dressed in odd clothes. NOT in the San Francisco flower-child hippie look or in elegant opera duds. They’re dressed for a Yoga Convention – lycra/spandex tights and bare little tank tops, toting rolled-up yoga mats. They all have cute butts. The kind we all covet. Isn’t this why we do yoga and Pilates? This aspect of a yoga body may not be the ohm of the universe, but it’s good to know that yoga offers so many benefits.
On Saturday afternoon, I hurry back from art class. Something tells me a TREASURE is awaiting me at the yoga exhibition hall. I embark on my search.
photo-ohm concert
Ohm Concert
I sit upon meditation pillows called zafus. Too heavy to haul home, but since Pat and I are studying meditation, it would make a good free-shipping purchase from Amazon.
I always stop by jewelry booths. This jewelry will give me high chi. It can clear any bad mood or negative energy with a magic (very expensive) gold or silver charm worn on my left wrist. Only a thousand or so. How many would I like? If only it were that easy.
I sniff essential oils, but I’m already onto this TREASURE. I clean my house with them, use them in my homemade skin oil (sea buckthorn berry, sandalwood, and lavender in a base of jojoba oil), put drops in my bath water (clary sage and cedarwood), and overall think they’re wonderful.
I sample green drinks (I love mine for balanced energy) and herbal teas (I’m already a believer.)
Yoga Wrap
Yoga Wrap
And then I find the TREASURE I NEED. A Yoga Wrap. It’s a cleverly made wrap covering a foot-long round foam cushion about 2 1/2 inches in diameter. The wrap attaches to the back of a chair. The middle of my spine is lightly leaning on the yoga wrap as I write this and it truly does reduce computer sitting fatigue and corrects that hunched over posture. Relaxes my shoulders, too. Lightweight and it fits into my suitcase. Looks a bit weird on my desk chair, but hey, this whole exhibit is truly out of the ordinary. It has a mystical quality. I was definitely in San Francisco and not in Utah.
I elevate to the lobby and order a Crab Louis salad to take to my room. I’m gleed up at the unusual sights and wonders I’ve seen on my TREASURE hunt. And pleased as ohm that the restaurant doesn’t add slices of irresistible sour dough bread to my to-go box. I’m eschewing wheat and starches for a week to see if it affects my allergy level, mood level, or creaking joints and tight muscles. It’s too early to tell. But I’ll keep you posted.