I Want Some Patience and I Want It RIGHT NOW!

Remember the Seinfeld episode where George Costanza's father goes around screaming, "Serenity now!" at the top of his lungs? That's how I felt after slaving over a batch of layered soap bars a couple of days ago.

I was making my triple-layered Black Rose soaps. The first layer was soft pink, the second layer black, and the third layer was more soft pink.  I was working on a batch of six bars; four turned out great. Two were goners.

This is what the Black Rose soaps are supposed to look like. Here are two of the successful bars.

What happened?

Well, anyone who has done layered melt-and-pour projects before knows that temperature and timing are crucial. If you pour too soon, your soap may be too hot and could melt the layer beneath. Pour too late, and the layers might not adhere. Get caught between these two, and you might have a problem.

I got caught between the two.

The first two layers of each bar went fine. It was on the third layer where I got tripped up. See, I had allowed 5 ounces for each bar, making a total of 30 ounces. That's 10 ounces per layer: 20 ounces of pink, 10 ounces of black.

Ten ounces of pink was great for the first layer. Ten ounces of black worked great for the second layer. Ten ounces of pink for the third proved problematic.

Here's a photo for comparison. See how the nice soap on the top has a clean, straight line of black? And how the two soaps on the bottom have uneven melty black layers with tendrils of black running through the bottom pink layer? Blech.

The third layer of pink for bars 1-4 poured just fine. But by bars 5 and 6, the soap was starting to cool too much and it was getting tacky and gloppy. So I heated what was left in my measuring cup for a few seconds in the microwave.

I took its temperature. I usually pour my layers around 110-115 degrees so I don't melt the layer below it. But it's kinda difficult to get an accurate temperature read on so little soap in a big measuring glass. I dipped my spoon into the base and dripped some of the melted base on my finger. Warm, but not hot.

I wondered if it needed a little more time to cool. But when I stirred it, it felt like it was getting tacky again and a skin was forming on it.

And it was time to pour. The second layer had hardened up and really needed its third layer NOW.

I figured, "It's probably cool enough. It's getting thick and I need to pour."

So I poured it, slowly and gently.

And?

Yep, you guessed it ... I melted the black layer beneath on both bars.

Pools of black floated to the surface of the pink, and little wispy melt lines reached their dreadful tendril-y fingers upward.

Awesome.

What did I learn? Well, I think next time I will start out with more soap base than I need. I had figured that I needed 20 ounces of pink. If I could have a mulligan and do it over again, I would start with 24 ounces instead so maybe I'd still have enough liquidy soap to at least finish all of my pours even if an ounce or two of the soap gets tacky and sticks to the sides of the glass. It is always better to have too much soap prepared than to not have enough.

And I will be more patient. It's a bit heartbreaking to work on a batch and then ruin some of them (especially on the last pour) because you pressured yourself to pour RIGHT NOW.

Ah, well, four out of six ain't bad. And the four that did turn out were a great success, and I am very happy with them. Heck, I can always make more.

Psst ... you can get one of these Black Rose soaps at my Etsy shop. Don't worry - I'll send you one of the pretty ones!

And, hey, Mother's Day is tomorrow. I can give my mom the prettiest one of the reject bars as a gift. And she has to say it's beautiful because I made it and she's my mom, right?

Right?

(Have soaping tragedy stories of your own? Share them with us! Wally the Wonder Turtle and I would love to hear them!)

Zen and the Art of Soaping?

I have never been referred to as a "relaxed person," unless the person referring to me is being sarcastic. And I want to be perfect, which, of course, is impossible. The ever-present threat of impending imperfection (gasp!) hanging over me makes me nervous.

See, I am a planner. I have a very clear picture in my mind of how I want something to look, or how I want something to go. If things go awry, it throws me off. As you can imagine, I am thrown off a lot.

Soaping throws me off sometimes. I will go into a project with a vision -- sometimes I even sketch out a picture first. I consider how many layers I want, how many ounces I want total in my 2.5-pound loaf mold, and then figure out how many ounces of each layer I need.

And it will be beautiful. It has to be beautiful.

Well ...

It would be nice if everything was always beautiful all of the time. But it's not, even when you plan, plan, plan, as if planning is some sort of vaccination against disappointment.

Take this horrifying specimen, for example:

This soap was supposed to depict a dolphin frolicking in the surf. I made a sparkly dolphin embed and shredded some blue and white soap to look like frothy waves ...

Not so much. Sorta, maybe?

It has discolored a bit too, making it even more disgusting. Now, I made this dolphin soap a long, long, long, loooong time ago when I was only a couple of months into soaping. All of the other soaps from this time period were used up eons ago. Why do I still have this particular bar, then? Because for all of this time, I have been too embarrassed to put it in the bathroom's soapdish or even in my own shower. This poor bar cannot be saved. But it can be remelted and re-molded and turned into something new, although it's getting pretty old and may not melt so well. (It still smells good, though, like coconut!)

Fast-forward to just a couple of weeks ago when I made a honeysuckle soap. I had planned to have a layer of pale yellow with yellow and orange chunks, a layer of clear with flower cut-outs floating inside, and another yellow layer with chunks.

Well.

That didn't happen. The chunks stuck out of the first layer and would have intruded into my clear layer. If I poured more yellow to cover the tops of the chunks, the symmetry of the whole bar would be thrown off. So, I abandoned the idea of doing a clear-with-flowers layer in the middle and decided to just do an entire bar of yellow with chunks and then top the bar off with a thin clear layer with some pretty little flowers embedded on top. Even though it was not what I had planned to do, this happy mistake turned out very nicely (way better than that pathetic dolphin soap):

Lesson learned: Don't try to force things. If it's not working out, take it in a new direction and go with it. Relax, it will be fine, and it will probably turn out pretty anyway. Not all mistakes spell disaster. You may be pleasantly surprised when things take a an unexpected turn -- things may turn out way better than what you had pictured in your mind's eye to begin with.

Or you might be not-so-pleasantly-surprised.

But with glycerin soaping, at least you can always remelt if everything just goes to heck.

Oh, if only life were as forgiving as glycerin soaping ...

Hey, maybe there's a life lesson here that can be applied beyond the realm of soaping?

Nah ...