January 15 2005, 04:22 PM The Balloon Tree

On the way to the grocery (on at least one way to the grocery) there is a balloon tree. It is a stately thing, tall and free of leaves. The bark is lightly colored and uniform, perhaps to camouflage it against the slate skies that are so prevalent here. It reaches high into the air with a pleasing, reaching splay of limbs, growing ever finer. Out near the edge of itself, a growth of balloons has sprung forth, colorful and ducking in the breeze.

Here is the story of how I make cocoa; I have most likely told this before. I will tell it again. Around here, I ask for cocoa at local eateries, and they need to confirm with me: "do you mean hot chocolate?" I have no complaints with what I get; what I get is an excellent drink for a diner, or a sidewalk. The particular cocoa of this story is not that.

In no particular order, you will need whole milk, cocoa powder, white sugar, vanilla extract, hot water, and something else. You will need a pot to cook it in, and a spoon to stir it with, and a mug to drink it from.

The milk should be whole. I am at a loss to argue the point; it is winter, and it is cold, and the drink is decadent in its deep simplicity. The milk is also the foundation of the thing, and as such, should be the best you can easily get. The milk should be fresh. When poured out, it should be white, white, and seem heavy in the glass.

I have fights about the cocoa powder. A friend of mine is a tremendous fan of dutch process cocoa powder. I find the stuff good for baking, but not for this; I miss the twang. I habitually use the stuff in the common dark brown box from that famous little town in the other end of the state, but I will readily admit that I do this because I have always done this. This drink is like that.

White, granulated sugar; I have not found anything else to work. They tell me that vanillin is vanillin, and our taste bugs can't discern the difference between real and artificial vanilla most times, but I think this is one of those times. I always buy the real stuff, anyway; one never knows. Keeping a kettle on the stove for hot water is sound practice; hot hot tap water will work as well. There is something else. I promise I will tell you what it is.

The sequence is simple. For each mug, put one (and some) heaping tablespoons of cocoa powder and one (and some) scant tablespoons of sugar in the bottom of a sauce pan. Add hot water (boiling is fine); add just enough to make a mud from the cocoa and the sugar. It should be thick and have much glop to it, and turn glossy under the spoon. Smash out any lumps. Put it on the stove over medium heat, and add how many mug's worth of milk.

Mix well, and then the hard part: watch. Do not let it over heat. Stir it well to keep it moving, so that it does not scorch. Ten thousand things will invade your kitchen: tiny mice in pirate costumes, gentlemen from the Amateur Astronomer's Collective to inquire about the new comet they have espied in the breakfast nook, Mr. Containment on a sushi bender, bears. Ignore all of these. Test with a finger or taste with a spoon to see if it is hot. If it is, tipple a tiny amount of vanilla into the brew, swish, and then pour out into mugs.

Now you will need something else. It is this: one nutmeg, and one nutmeg grater. Make sure you spend no more than three dollars on the grater; any more and you've got the wrong kind. Make sure you use whole nutmeg; pre-ground stuff loses most of its life and sits sullen in the jar, unready to please you. Grate just a bit of nutmeg over the cocoa at the last minute. It will float on top, and the heat of the drink will wake it up. Do not make it so heavy as to flavor the drink: the nutmeg is for the nose, in the act of drinking. Go gently.

It is usually best to clean the pots immediately after pouring. If circumstances do not permit, let them soak in the sink, and carefully carry the cocoa off to the sitting room. Better: the fireplace. These things are worth planning.

I can easily imagine how a hand lost grasp of the score of thin white strings, sending the balloons upwards to fidget and sit at the top of the tree. This is most certainly what has happened, and in a day, or week, those balloons will shudder and fold, one by one, until the tree is then decked with a handful of limp colored shards and some tired twine, growing yellow in the elements. Perhaps some rain or wind will knock it down eventually. Perhaps not.

Or instead: we have a new botanical, a new ecological niche exploited adroitly by a tree that has lucked into the discovery of a new way of flowering, eye catching and bright against the winter skies. Perhaps through some natural process those seeds will break free and wander the winds as more classical seeds do. I have cocoa in a cup, and a plate of thin spice cookies, and I watch the skies.