S’mores Tart.

Dear god, it’s been almost a month.  Three weeks about, on the nose.  Have I not eaten in the past three weeks?  Clearly not.  With a combination of finals, Thanksgiving, and the relative consumption of food either after all the natural light is gone or—oh my—before the camera makes it out of the bag…golly food writing is hard.  All that food and not enough time.  Oh, the struggles.

Speaking of struggles, really difficult, soul-wrenching struggles, try finishing a slice of this S’mores Tart.  Appealing to the child-within, this S’mores Tart is everything a s’mores should be, warm, melting, overwhelming chocolaty with a salty-graham finish.  A hint of toasted marshmallow caramel.  Except sophisticated and lacking the campfire.  (But if you close your eyes, don’t worry, the campfire is still there when you want it.)  So what’s the problem you ask?  How, on this dear planet of ours, could finishing a decadent wedge of this tart be a hardship?  Especially when, at the age of eight, eating s’mores en mass was the easiest thing about camping.

Because, as it often happens with the most delicious of deserts, when your tongue says yes, sometimes your stomach says no.  God damn those internal organs.  Although my brain wants to eat a rich and melting bar of buttery ganache topped with light and airy toasted marshmallows, my gut can’t handle it.  And the discord between heart and stomach, tongue and stomach, soul and stomach, is too much.  So what, don’t make the tart?

Don’t be ridiculous.  Make the tart, and then eat little slices.  Every hour, each hour, until it’s gone.

Recipe on the following page.

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