The world is supposed to end today and I have no idea what to fix for supper, much less who to invite. The prospect of having to prepare my last meal on earth is entirely too overwhelming. All I can say is, just about the time Doomsday hits, no matter how grand the plans or big the roast I’ve marinated, I just know I’m going to decide that we’d might as well order pizza. Making chocolates is pretty much like that. I sketch out half a dozen varieties in my head that I know I can whip out in an afternoon, and by the time the ganaches are made and the first couple of pounds of chocolate are tempered, I realize I need a bigger kitchen and another day to get it all done.