So here’s how this post *should* have gone:
Last night, I attempted a recipe adapted from a new popsicle cookbook (!) called Paletas: Authentic Recipes for Mexian Ice Pops, Shaved Ice and Aguas Frescas, by Fany Gerson.
Ingredients: 1 cup water, ½ cup sugar, 2 small, ripe avocados, pinch of salt, 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice
Directions: Combine water and sugar in a small saucepan & cook over medium-high heat until mixture comes to a boil and sugar dissolves. Let cool to room temperature.
Scoop avocado flesh into a bowl. Add salt and sugar/water mix. Mash and stir (or throw in the food processor/blender) until smooth. Add lime juice.
Divide the mixture into popsicle molds & freeze.
And then I would produce for you a photo that looked like this from Joanna Goddard:
Mmm, right? You should totally try it, and I totally wish you luck. Here’s what actually happened, though, when I tried to make these avocado popsicles:
Mix 1 cup water with ½ cup natural turbinado cane sugar in pot until it boils and sugar dissolves. Let cool. Realize while it is cooling that I have neither popsicle molds nor popsicle sticks.
Mix avocado, salt and syrup in a small bowl, which nearly overflows. Mash about at small bowl with a spoon for a few moments until realizing I could pour the mixture into the empty pot I’d been boiling sugar in. Do that. Add a heaping tablespoon of raw honey for no good reason. Attempt to mash up honey and avocado with a spatula for a few minutes which is not…going…well.
Turn stove on medium heat, hoping to melt the avocado, which is still in big clumps. Stir furiously for 30 seconds. Step into the living room, where my boyfriend is watching The Departed, and say, turns out, avocado doesn’t just melt in water. He asks me if I have something to mash the avocado with, and I tell him I’m using a wooden spatula. Babe, you don’t have a masher, you don’t have popsicle sticks or trays... he says. Do I have an ice cube tray? I ask (I haven’t lived here long). He shakes his head ‘no.’ I’ll figure something out, I say.
Return to kitchen, avocado is still clumpy. Decide now is a good time to squeeze in the lime juice. Do that. Turn the heat to high. Let the goopy green mixture come to a boil, stir some more. The majority of avocado chunks have dissolved, so I turn the burner off. Head in to watch the movie and drink some Gewürztraminer while it cools.
Check on the mixture about 30 minutes later—still chunky, but I’m pretty much over it. Give it a few more half-hearted stabs with the spatula, then pour the mixture into mason jars, which will have to do. Place the jars in the freezer overnight.
The next day. We have to try the avocado … ice, I tell my boyfriend, who makes a face at the prospect but agrees. We take a mason jar of hardened avocado goop the color of chemical ooze from the freezer and stare at it. I begin giggling uncontrollably. Need to stop laughing long enough to try this, I say, and finally manage to swallow a tepid little spoonful. It’s the consistency of ice cream, more or less. I have absolutely no idea how to describe what it tastes like, I think.
My boyfriend takes a little scoop, eats it, and heads straight out of the kitchen. That is not good, he says from a safe distance. I nibble a few more spoonfuls, hoping it will grow on me, but after five or six bites it has only gotten worse. It just tastes like weird, cold avocado, I shout into the living room. Yeah, he says. Exactly like weird cold avocado.
Well, I say, I guess I’ll just write about that.