My Mom’s Famous Caramels

I taught Jason to make sinigang. His request, from that night in October when he asked to learn the sour soup for the bad nights. We stood in my kitchen — his hands on the knife, mine guiding, the way Lourdes's hands guided mine, the way her mother's guided hers, the chain of teaching that stretches back to Iloilo and now includes a white paramedic from Anchorage, which would make Lourdes laugh and also make her proud, because the recipes traveling is the recipes surviving.

I taught him the way Lourdes taught me: by doing, not by telling. "Slice the tomatoes this thick." "The onion goes in first." "The tamarind — you boil it, mash it, strain it. No shortcuts." He was careful, methodical, the way paramedics are — following instructions precisely, checking at each step, the medical training translating into kitchen competence. His knife work was slow but accurate. His tamarind straining was thorough. His face, when the broth turned sour and the steam carried the tamarind to his nose, was a face encountering something it didn't fully understand but wanted to.

The sinigang was — not Lourdes's. Not mine. It was Jason's, which means it was slightly less sour, slightly more salt, the vegetables cut larger, the pork cut smaller. It was a version. His version. The beginning of his version, the way my version is the continuation of Lourdes's version, which is the continuation of her mother's version, and the chain lengthens every time someone new stands at the pot and stirs.

We ate his sinigang together. I tasted it and said, "More tamarind next time." He said, "Your mom would say that." I said, "My mom would say that about everything. More tamarind is her answer to all of life's problems." He laughed. I didn't tell him that I meant it — that Lourdes's tamarind philosophy, the "one more squeeze," is the closest thing to a life philosophy I have. One more squeeze. One more try. One more bowl of soup on a bad night. One more day. One more.

The sinigang sat in our stomachs and the warmth spread and the apartment was the temperature of a place where two people had just cooked together for the first time, which is a specific temperature — higher than normal, humid from the steam, smelling like tamarind and garlic and the new, strange intimacy of shared labor. He washed the dishes. I dried. We were domestic. We were something. The something was warm. Like sinigang. Like the kitchen itself. Like the chain of hands, extending.

The sinigang lesson got me thinking about all the other things Lourdes’s hands taught mine — and her caramels were one I hadn’t made since the winter she was still here to make them with me. Where sinigang is her philosophy of “one more squeeze,” these caramels are her philosophy of patience: you cannot rush them, you cannot walk away, and the result is worth every minute you stood at the stove watching and waiting. I made a batch the week after Jason and I cooked together, because the kitchen still felt warm and I wanted to keep it that way, and because some recipes are how you stay close to someone even when they’re gone.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes + 2 hours cooling | Servings: 64 pieces

Ingredients

2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 cup light corn syrup
1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Flaky sea salt, for topping (optional)

Instructions

Prepare the pan. Line a 9x13-inch baking pan with parchment paper, leaving overhang on the sides. Butter the parchment generously and set aside.
Combine the base. In a heavy-bottomed 4-quart saucepan over medium heat, combine the granulated sugar, brown sugar, butter, corn syrup, condensed milk, heavy cream, and fine sea salt. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon or heatproof spatula until the butter melts and the mixture is smooth.
Cook to temperature. Clip a candy thermometer to the side of the pan. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat, stirring frequently, then reduce heat to medium-low. Continue cooking, stirring constantly, until the thermometer reads 245°F (firm-ball stage), about 25–35 minutes. Do not walk away — the caramel can scorch quickly near the end.
Add vanilla. Remove the pan from heat and stir in the vanilla extract. The mixture will bubble up briefly; keep stirring until it settles.
Pour and set. Carefully pour the caramel into the prepared pan. Sprinkle with flaky sea salt if using. Let cool at room temperature for at least 2 hours, or until fully firm.
Cut and wrap. Use the parchment overhang to lift the caramel slab onto a cutting board. Using a sharp, lightly buttered knife, cut into 1-inch squares or rectangles. Wrap each piece individually in small squares of wax paper, twisting the ends closed.

Nutrition (per serving)

My Mom’s Famous Caramels — The Other Thing She Taught Me to Make