Recently we posted here about discovering the new British Foods section at the Zelda Road Publix. We complained about the delicious ginger beer that they no longer stock and otherwise made fun of the offerings. But we are patient people, and at least one of us sometimes drunkenly represents herself as a social scientist on occasion, so we decided to run an experiment. We purchased a can of treacle and decided to make it ourselves at home with the goal of reporting to you, our dear readers, on the preparation process and tasting results.
It is worth noting that neither of us had ever purchased or prepared a food item that was supposed to be boiled while in a can. This might explain why neither of us had ever encountered a food item that used the word “spurting” on its label. But fine, we were in it for treacle – and shouldn’t a product whose name is synonymous with sweetness and an overabundance of sentiment be just the thing to perk up our Sunday night? We decided to find out. The label indicated that we were to float the can in at least 2 and a half pints of boiling water for 35 minutes. During this period we were not to let the water run dry.
After boiling, we were able to remove the can and its trailing, soggy label (which we might have removed in advance if we had been more sensible about the whole thing) and transfer to a plate.
After this, we were really feeling the excitement of getting ever closer to the 840 calories of treacly goodness. What opening of a single can can promise such a bounty of calories and sugar as well as 40% of your RDA of saturated fat? The moment of anticipation is beautifully drug out in the treacle preparation process – clearly calculated to drive you mad with desire. The tattered label instructed us “To prevent spurting, hold cloth over can opener when removing can top marked ‘open this end first.'” Our coy treacle let us peek behind its first veil like so, revealing a spongy inside that was a color somewhere between rash and safety vest.
We were intrigued. Who knew that treacle would be added to that exclusive list of things that allow you to see their bottom before you can see their top? Eager to move to our dalliance’s denouement, we flipped over the can and gently removed the last tin disc standing between us and this exotic dessert from across the sea.
Inside, we were surprised to find our treacle topped with a rim of glistening sugar globs about the color and texture one might expect upon throwing a handful of salmon eggs into a blender. This is not normally the sort of thing we are looking for in a dessert. Nevertheless, we pressed on – the moment of truth was finally here! We only had to ease the willing treacle out onto a plate, accomplished with a satisfying “glop,” and dig our forks in – pausing only for a minute to take a photo of the final product.
Loyal readers, we wish we could exalt the taste and texture of our treacle. We wish that we could urge, nay command all of you to rush out to your local Publix and buy a can for your own delectation. Sadly, we cannot. Unless rubbery mouth-feel and the vague taste of foot are what you are looking for in a satisfying dessert. In which case, go forth to the British Foods section and join the Treacle Revolution!