It’s gonna blow!
Two things I know to be true: One, unlike most other types of cooking, where careless grace can yield delicious surprises, baking is an exact science of measurements and ratios. If you try to flour and leaven to taste, you’ll either end up with an inflated brick of carbon goodness or a pan of spreadable milk-soup; there is no middle ground. Two, my culinary tao has always been “eh, smells close enough.” Have I ever made it a mystery about where my recipes get plucked from? My ass.
These two facts hardly jibe with each other, and it was only a matter of time before the precision of baking and the sloppiness of my everything ruined a blog post. Well, almost. Although I disguised it well, last Wednesday’s coffee cake came out… in a word… explodey. The pictures around the post speak for themselves. I used the wrong size pan, and the batter erupted over the top like a fat girl in skinny jeans. A lot of oven-scrubbing profanity ensued.
The ashes of a job crap done.
That I’ve never had to write an apologetic post (about cooking, at least) in six month of blogging must mean I’m feeding you pretty damn well. The question is, should I be posting my mistakes—that is, if I haven’t done it right, who am I to tell you how something should be made? I’m the Queen of Everything. Who the hell are you? The pictures I take look delectable, and I know the recipe’s right. I don’t ever remember anyone accusing me of being fair, so eat what I tell you, stupid. Best apology ever.
I didn’t screw this one up. Promise.
- 1 bottle red wine
- 1/2 cup brandy
- 1/2 cup triple sec
- 2 cups sparkling lemonade
- 1 lemon, sliced
- 1 lime, sliced
- 1 orange, sliced
- 5 strawberries, sliced
- 1 nectarine, sliced
- 1/2 cup blackberries
In one pitcher, mix wine, brandy, triple sec and lemonade. Put all of the fruit into a second glass pitcher, and pour the wine mixture on top. Serve over crushed ice with bits of the fruit fished out of the pitcher. Absolutely delightful.
Earlier this year, I made a wonderful turkey noodle soup. The pictures you saw of it, however, were taken two weeks past its shelf life. I had forgotten about it somewhere in the abyss of my fridge, and what I smelled upon the rediscovery of its Tupperware was something akin to forensic pathology. It still photographed all purty, and that’s what mattered. The point is, unless you fall into the orchestra pit, no one can tell you flubbed your lines.
TWTG says, “That’s like, yeah.”