Coconut Creme Chocolates

Eight hours of light and climbing. The body waking up. Two trauma cases stayed with me through the weekend. I cooked through them.

Lourdes is 76. She is slower. She still cooks. She still tells me to find a husband even though I have one.

I made bibingka Sunday. The pandan leaves, the coconut, the salted egg, the cheese on top. The dessert that is also a small church.

A reader wrote me a long email this week about her grandmother's adobo, which differed from mine in every measurement. The differences were the conversation. I wrote her back. The writing back is the work.

I sat at the kitchen table Sunday night with the bowl in front of me. The bowl was warm. The bowl was the prayer.

I took a walk on the coastal trail Saturday. The light was good. The body was tired but moving.

I took inventory of the freezer Sunday. The freezer had: twelve quarts of broth, eight pounds of adobo in vacuum bags, six pounds of sinigang base, fourteen lumpia trays at fifty rolls each, three pounds of marinated beef for caldereta, and a small bag of pandan leaves Tita Nening had sent me. The inventory was the proof of preparation. The preparation was the proof of love.

I drove the Glenn Highway out to Eklutna on Saturday. The mountains were the mountains. The lake was the lake. The body needed the open road. The open road did its work.

I drove home Tuesday evening and the sun set at three forty-five and the highway was already iced at the bridges and the radio was on a station I did not recognize and I did not change it.

A reader from New Jersey wrote in about her grandmother's adobo, which used pineapple. I had never heard of pineapple in adobo. I tried it. It was strange. It was also good. The strange and the good are not opposites.

The neighbors invited us over for a small dinner Thursday. They are an Iñupiaq family — Aana and her grandson Joe. We ate caribou stew and rice. I brought lumpia. The kitchens of Anchorage have always been the small UN. The food is the proof.

Angela texted me a photo of the kids. I texted back a heart. The exchange took thirty seconds. The thirty seconds was the keeping.

I read a chapter of a novel before bed each night this week. The novel was about a Filipina nurse in California. The novel was good. The novel was, in some way, my own life adjacent.

Auntie Norma called Sunday afternoon. She is now seventy-nine. She wanted a recipe. I gave it to her. She wanted to know how my week was. I told her, briefly. She told me about her week. The exchange took eighteen minutes. The eighteen minutes was the keeping.

The Anchorage sky was the Anchorage sky. The mountains were the mountains. The inlet was the inlet. The geography was the geography.

The therapy session this month was about pacing. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The pacing is the love for the future self." I am working on the pacing. The pacing is harder than the loving.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. I wiped the stove. I scrubbed the sink. I reorganized the spice cabinet. The cleaning was the small reset. The reset was the marker. The marker said: the week is over, the next week begins, the kitchen is ready.

Pete and I had a long phone conversation Tuesday. We talked about the family — his and mine. The talking was the keeping.

I taught a Saturday morning Kain Na class on basic adobo proportions for new cooks. Eleven people in the kitchen. Half of them had never cooked Filipino food before. By eleven AM the kitchen smelled the way it should smell. By noon they were all eating. The eating was the lesson landing.

The bibingka was already gone by Sunday night — Lourdes had taken half of it home, and I had eaten the rest standing at the counter because some foods are meant to be finished before you sit down and think too hard about the week. But the coconut was still with me, that particular sweetness that sits in the back of the throat like a kept promise, and I found myself making these coconut creme chocolates on Monday evening almost without deciding to — just hands and muscle memory and the small bag of pandan-scented coconut still on the counter. They are not bibingka. They are their own quiet thing. But they carry the same tenderness, and after a week like this one, tenderness was what the kitchen had left to give.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes + 1 hour chilling | Servings: 24 pieces

Ingredients

1 cup sweetened shredded coconut
1/2 cup coconut cream
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
10 oz dark chocolate (60–70% cacao), finely chopped
1 teaspoon coconut oil
Flaky sea salt, for finishing (optional)

Instructions

Make the coconut creme filling. In a medium bowl, combine the shredded coconut, coconut cream, powdered sugar, softened butter, vanilla extract, and fine sea salt. Stir until a smooth, slightly firm paste forms. If the mixture feels too soft, add powdered sugar a tablespoon at a time until it holds its shape when rolled.
Shape the centers. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Roll the filling into 1-inch balls (about 1 rounded teaspoon each) and place on the prepared sheet. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, until firm.
Melt the chocolate. Combine the chopped dark chocolate and coconut oil in a heatproof bowl set over a pot of barely simmering water (do not let the bowl touch the water). Stir gently until fully melted and smooth. Remove from heat and let cool for 5 minutes.
Coat the chocolates. Using a fork or dipping tool, lower each chilled coconut center into the melted chocolate, turning to coat completely. Lift out and let the excess drip off, then return to the parchment-lined sheet.
Finish and set. While the chocolate is still wet, sprinkle each piece with a small pinch of flaky sea salt if using. Refrigerate for 30 minutes or until the chocolate is fully set.
Store. Keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to two weeks, or at cool room temperature for up to five days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Coconut Creme Chocolates — The Sweetness That Carries You Through