How Could It Go Wrong?
We've been sharing holidays with my granddaughter's clan for some years now. That's where I learned that lasagna was just the first course at Thanksgiving. It was time to move past the " a couple bottles of wine" contribution so we requested a more participatory role in dinner preparation this Thanksgiving. Discussion ensued. In the end, my husband prepared his most tasty and elegant roasted golden and red beet salad with goat cheese and walnuts. He also delivered mouth watering sausage stuffed mushrooms. In an explosion of domestic energy, I committed to Thanksgiving dessert. Dare I? I'm not well known for my baking. Just ask my grandsons.
The story goes something like this. Ten years ago, when they were just cute little boys, sugar cookies seemed like a fun activity for a snowy afternoon. All was going well. We mixed the dough, chilled the dough, rolled the dough, cut the cookies, baked and then decorated them so perfectly. Their aroma filled the kitchen. With eyes sparkling and all of us laughing, in unison the boys grabbed a favorite shape from the counter, opened their mouths wide, then bit with great enthusiasm and chewed. The kitchen went silent, their faces grimaced as they swallowed.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Nothing, Nana." They couldn't look me in the eye. I picked up a cookie, took a bite and nearly choked. Nana bought cookies after that.
But I digress. I was sure, now that I'm retired and could take my time, I could leave my baking troubles behind and bake like a pro. Last year's Christmas cookies, baked with my excellent baker friend, Justine, were actually pretty good. And, hell, I've been watching the Great British Baking Show for forever now so I've learned a thing or two about baking.
With confidence and a New York Time's recipe in hand, I shopped for the ingredients, exactly as the recipe call for. I baked this gorgeous apple pie, following the recipe in every detail - crust from scratch, apples peeled and carefully sliced, and then simmered in sugar, allspice and cinnamon before being poured into the "blind" baked crust in my new cherry red ceramic pie dish. I even twirled the lattice pie crust strips to resemble fettuccine (the clan is Italian).
Fast forward to after the turkey. The pie was warmed and aromatic. We had slices on our plates, added vanilla ice cream and began to eat. The room went silent. I looked around. I took a bite. I nearly choked. The pie was dry and the apples crunchy.
"The crust is flaky and tasty," one daughter-in-law said to be kind. I explained the recipe. "Well, you used the wrong kind of apples and the recipe was too complicated," said the other daughter-in-law emphatically authoritative. I smiled, I listened, I nodded in agreement. I thanked everyone, then I cleared away the plates of half eaten slices, took a deep yoga breath, and chalked up another lesson learned -- No matter how much I try, baking, for me is just, well, rocket science.