"How can I go wrong with the instruction, "Cook until it's amber?"

These are the words with which I chose to end my final column of 2009, and are most fittingly the words with which I shall ring in 2010.

I am happy to welcome in the New Year; and as much as I enjoyed our holiday stay with Gord's family in Parry Sound, I am very happy to be home. For here, on the kitchen counter, sits a grand monument to my memories of 2009:

A tin of peanut brittle and three packages of gingerbread.

Before the holidays, I wrote of my intention to bring homemade desserts to Cunningham Family Christmas. So the night before we left, I deposited myself in the kitchen to create something wonderful.

I began with the peanut brittle.

The instructions seemed so easy, I decided to make a double batch, and therefore combined twice the prescribed amount of water and sugar in a pot on the stove and proceeded to swirl it for five minutes 'until it was amber'.

Nothing happened.

I continued swirling.

In a burst of Food Network inspired creativity I added vanilla.

And butter.

And a pinch of salt

I swirled.

After fifteen minutes my wrist was in danger of dislocation and I was beginning to doubt my ability to discern the colour amber. Had I been mistaken all these years? Was amber in fact a translucent shade of sugary white?

Finally I decided that it must be ready and I poured a half jar of peanuts into the mix. I swirled one last time and poured the mixture out on to my baking sheet.

At first glance, it seemed to even my untrained eye that perhaps my peanut brittle had not turned out as it should. Whether it was the overabundance of half-coated peanuts or the mound of undissolved sugar that rested on top of them, I couldn't say; but I debated the wisdom of tasting my creation.

Finally I reached over to pick up a sugarcoated peanut.

The entire peanut brittle as well as my baking sheet lifted off the counter. I marveled at the strength of my cooking until it occurred to me that perhaps I too was in danger of permanent attachment. I dropped it back down to the counter.

I would next attempt the gingerbread.

Again I followed the recipe, and was pleased to find that it contained no hint of amber colouring. I filled a square and a circular pan with my final mixture and placed both pans in the oven for an hour.

When the time was up the gingerbread in the circular pan slid out with ease and rested on the cooling tray. It looked perfect, albeit somewhat dented by the large thumbprint of my oven mitt. The gingerbread in the square pan however did not seem as eager to release. I turned it upside down in a bid to shake it onto my outstretched oven mitt.

I did manage to catch the middle portion.

The rest of the gingerbread fell in pieces on to the stovetop and down to the floor. I caught a good-sized chunk with my slipper. Although I was inclined to simply stare in disbelief for an indefinite period of time, I cleaned up the mess and then surveyed the damage. The salvageable pieces of the broken gingerbread sat in two containers of Tupperware. The practically unsullied round gingerbread was carefully sealed in Saran wrap. The peanut brittle had been painstakingly pried from the baking tray with Gord's hunting knife and rested in a colourful holiday tin.

After eyeing the tin with some trepidation, I decided to break off a piece of the gingerbread and try it.

I chewed.

I swallowed.

Not to brag but I was quite honestly impressed by my own skill.

Despite my ample use of ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg and molasses I had managed to bake something with absolutely no discernable flavour. Suffice to say that I brought store-bought goodies for the holidays. But in honour of my culinary attempt, I decided to leave my peanut brittle gingerbread monument intact until the last of the Christmas decorations were taken down.

Sometime in February.

Happy New Year everyone!