Writing Each Day

Turkish Delights For Goodbyes

Turkish Delights For Goodbyes

What You'll Need

4 cups of granulated sugar

4 ½ cups water (divided by your girlfriend handing them to you as she stands near the sink)

2 tsp. lemon juice (which you don't add in the end. Or at least she can't tell if you did by the taste)

1 ¼ cups of cornstarch (You swear it's in the back cupboard on the left of the microwave)

1 tsp. cream of tartar (Okay. You know you saw it the other day. Where did it go?)

2 to 3 drops of blue food coloring (She loves the color blue, and you want this to be perfect)

1 cup powdered sugar

How To Make It

1. Place the 4 cups sugar, 2 tsp. lemon juice, and 1 ½ cups of the water in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar dissolves, and bring the mixture to a boil. (Argue over whether its boiling or simmering. Continue on even though she is right when she says it's only simmering)

2. Let boil (simmer) for 10-15 minutes. Then set the sugar mixture aside and, in a large sauce pot, pour in 1 ¼ cornstarch. Add 1 tsp. cream of tartar ("What's that? She asks sitting by the island. "Kind of like baking powder.") and slowly whisk in 3 cups of water. (She walks to the sink at your request and starts measuring water, handing you one cup at a time.)

3. Whisk constantly over medium-high heat until it thickens. (Ask her to stir as you look at the recipe again for the fifth time.)

4. Slowly pour in the sugar syrup mixture from before. (Focus as she watches you. Don't think about how she's wrapped her arms around you from behind.) Continue constantly whisking to make sure that it is fully incorporated.

5. Bring mixture to a gentle bubble, reduce the heat and cook it for one hour, occasionally stirring until it turns a light golden brown. ("It's been 15 minutes, and that's not golden brown." You stir once more. "Then what color would you call it?" She furrows her brow. "...Hazel." God. She's beautiful. I adore her.)

6. Add 2 to 3 drops of food coloring. ("Uh Babe, this doesn't look blue." You call out to her. "What does it look like?" She lays a hand on the small of your back. "An unappetizing green?" The both of you laugh.)

7. Whisk again until completely combined and pour into a square or rectangle container lined with plastic wrap. (You lay out Tupperware and put the plastic wrap inside. You tell her to grab the pot. She does and stands next to you. You direct her to start pouring the mixture in the tubs. Scooping out the glue-like green gunk with a spatula, the pot shakes and burns against her arm. "Are you okay?" "I told you I couldn't hold it that way." You take it from her hands, and she switches to scooping. When you are done, you both have burns, but you let her bathe her arm in ice water first. You wrap yourself around her, intent on making sure she is truly okay.)

8. Let sit at room temperature for 4-6 hours. Then dust with powdered sugar. ("I screwed up. This takes six hours." She wants to scream or cry or both. You can see it in her eyes. Such a shame you can read her so well. "I don't have six hours." "I know. I'll drop it by your house or something." This means it's time. Time for her to leave. But not really, it's you leaving. Flying back to your new life. She is just the part of your old life you can't quite let go of. You don't cry this time. She cries less. Outside in the driveway, the two of you kiss. She doesn't want to leave, and she traps you in her arms with a hug, crying into your shoulder. Your face is buried in her hair. You breathe in trying to memorize her smell, so you don't forget it as quickly as before. Truth be told, you remembered it for months, but it still felt like you forgot it too soon. Once you are done memorizing her, you speak up. "It's time. 3. 2. 1. Let go." You say in a broken voice. Neither let's go until a few seconds pass. She gets in her car and drives in reverse away from you. You can see her breakdown. You can't tell if you are hearing her tears or just imagining the sound. Either way, it breaks you just as you broke her.)

Tip

Turkish Delight is best soon after it is made. It doesn't keep very well. (You can't quite tell if you thought this through and are ignoring all the pain it will cause or if you truly only realized after. Placing the dessert you were desperate to make for her by her door you text one word: Porch. You didn't expect her to come running downstairs to catch you before you left. Your helmet is already on, and you're sitting on your bike about to turn the key. She runs to you thinking you will say something that will change the fact that she was crying when you texted and now is desperately trying to dry her eyes. Her face buries into you like you did to her the day before. So many words you want to say but all that comes out is "I have to go." "I Know. I just didn't think I'd see you again." She picks up the Turkish Delight on her way back inside, and you ride off. What you don't know is she places it in the kitchen and runs up to her room to cry. She wishes for more. More words so you didn't just ruin your perfect goodbye from the day before. She wishes for a note. There is hope as she runs downstairs in the dark to grab the paper plate with wax paper covering wanting to see if there is a note left inside or just Turkish Delights. The note you left has two words, and it's not what she wanted. All it said, in messy handwriting, was "For Her."

She finished your gift a week and a half after you left. Funny that a dessert lasted that long. Most things aren't meant to last.)