A Pastel Chip on My Shoulder

The blank canvas is a vastly exciting thing; it is frozen in meaninglessness until we mark it. Poised before a plain white sheet, we wield an extraordinary and uniquely human power of creation. Few other life forms (a) have imaginings which (b) they can transcribe into physical reality. Elephants with paintbrushes don't count.

Musicians start with silence and sculptors with a slab of marble, but from what point does the chef begin?

Because they resembled in shade and texture a pale and empty page, I chose Tartelette's White Chocolate Brownies as my alphas. I was pursuing a vision of pastel-chipped blondies, a bar whose cross-section would glitter with a rainbow of... these things:

It occurred to me as I tried to hunt down these candies that we - bakers as a genus - do not have a name for them. Until now. I am calling them "pastel chips." Forever so shall they be. Pastel chips were the only substitution I made in Tartelette's recipe.

Recall, if you will, the ignoramus of the classroom who habitually mismatched markers and their caps. He probably had a permanent Kool-Aid mustache and a rattail. Thanks to him, your sun would be blue and your mom's hair green. This little punk now makes pastel chips.

I was expecting creamy, Easter-hued bits of mint in my blondies. Instead, the pastel chips melted into flecks of primary colors. Where a chip should be, only smudgy crumbs dyed red, green, and yellow remained. The white chocolate blondies were neither white nor chocolatey. And curiously, the pastel chips' sugar beads did not dissolve. They lent an odd, almost imperceptible crunch to the bar.

Minty and buttery though they were, these bars were the result of an artistic endeavor that ended ingloriously. Clue me in on your secrets if you've baked with pastel chips in such a way that preserves their shape and color. To me, these chips are barely worthy of a name.