These last two weeks I’ve been busy with a project I’ve been putting off for three years, which is part of the reason I haven’t been writing. I’ve been downloading pictures from my camera cards—all 600 of them—pictures that is. Another casualty of writing full-time.
It all started with my daughter’s 10th birthday. Her birthday was a formal princess/tiara/fancy updos, the whole shebang. Naturally parents want pictures and naturally I promised I would take them. So one thing led to another and I began the selection process, which led to setting up an online Walgreens photo account, which led to my discovering themed borders available, which led to hours upon hours, upon days and now weeks of this photo project. I’m still working on the cropping, rotating, red eye, and I’m actually leading up to the point of this post. I can’t bake a pretty cake to save my life.
First off, I hate to cook. The closest thing to cooking I marginally enjoy is baking: cakes and cookies in particular. But I AM NOT GOOD AT IT.
Exhibit A: This cake we call the Butt Cake for obvious reasons. You can see I tried to repair its implosion with skewers. As you can see, it was not effective. This was my sister’s birthday cake and as I was contemplating running to the store before she got there, she arrived, thus the body language of embarrassment I portray. (No, I didn’t crop my head off to remain mysterious. Most pictures I’ve seen so far of me are of my backside or headless. When I find a suitable photo, I will change my avatar.)
Exhibit B: My daughter’s birthday cake we call the Insect Cake for obvious reasons. Don’t worry, this cake was for family eyes only. It was the product of too much batter left over from making cupcakes for her classroom in her birthday honor. I had enough batter to make one layer of a layer cake, and that with the extra cupcakes, I created something frightful and buggy eyed.
Exhibit C: It’s now my husband’s turn for cake disgrace. My being astute to my past failures led me to stay away from making a cake this time. So I made him a cheesecake.
But something bad happened. (What? You’re shocked, you say?)
I was heading over to the stove with the crust, ready to pour the batter in it and bake, and lo-and-behold the crust flew out of the tin and landed right on top of the batter and crumbled into pieces. We call this one Cheesecake Crumble Surprise.
This is why I stick to writing for my creative outlet.
I am not the only person frustrated about their foodie failures. This last photo is of my sister. She spent the better part of the day churning ice cream to feed eleven people. Her hard-worked efforts produced enough ice cream to fill a Baskin Robbin kiddie cup. As you can see, she is disappointed.
These are just a few of my kitchen failures. None of the others was captured on film—thank God. I have a reputation. Family members expect me to deliver the same results each time. They put in their orders months ahead of time. It’s tough living up to these expectations.
Is there a bit of you that is so bad you could have a cult following, a B movie made in honor of it?