FAIR AT HOME ~ Recipes!

For my own use in the drippy, grey, cold of January...and for any others who want a Taste of The Fair At Home...here are the recipes worth keeping.  The ones I didn't cross out with a big X with disappointment.  I mean, that pickle dog was good but just too much pickle.


DEEP FRIED BATTER

1 cup plus about 2 heaping spoonfuls of pancake mix (Bisquik)
about 2 teaspoons less than 2/3 cup whole milk
1 large egg
2 teaspoons vegetable oil

Combine in a bowl, mix until smooth.

Yep, you're right.  Those are some imprecise measurements.  We experimented a bit because the batter using the original recipe was too thin, even with refrigerating it.  We still think the batter could be a little thicker, so when we are stuck at Woodhaven in a snow storm, we might spend some time perfecting this.

And note...the spoons for the pancake mix are the ones from your silverware drawer...as opposed to the actual measuring spoon used to subtract some whole milk.  Ugh.  Baking.



TIPS FOR DEEP FRYING STUFF

• Freeze your treats for at least an hour beforehand so they don't instantly melt and disintegrate when they hit the hot oil. 

• The temperature of the cooking oil varies by recipe.  Without a recipe, we used 350 degrees.

• Tongs and a wire basket on a stick are handy tools for plopping and retrieving and turning. 

• Have powdered sugar and chocolate syrup available for accessorizing

• Double Stuff Oreos, York Peppermint Patties, and Starbursts were my favorites.

Mmmm....Deep Fried Yorks

INDIAN FRY BREAD
(full recipe for Navajo Tacos found here -- Thank you, Erika!)

2 cups all-purpose flour
2.5 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup warm water

In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Add the warm water and mix using a fork until a dough forms.  Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 5 minutes, then transfer to a clean bowl and cover tightly in plastic wrap.  Let the dough rest for 10 minutes.

Divide the dough into 8 equal sections by pinching off golf-ball sized balls of dough, then pat and roll out the dough balls into roughly 6-inch discs on a lightly floured surface.  Keep them covered with plastic wrap while you prepare to fry them.

Heat 3 cups of oil in a large skillet or frying pan over medium heat for about 5 minutes until the oil temperature reaches between 350 and 360 degrees F.  [Or use your adorable mini deep fryer which every properly stocked kitchen should have.] Working in batches, fry each disc in the hot oil until the dough is golden brown on one side, then carefully flip with tongs and fry on the other side. Set on a paper towel to drain oil and stick in a warm oven to stay hot while the other fry bread is cooked.

The Fry Bread was really good just on its own, but feel
free to decorate it with taco meat, cheese, PB&J, hummus...
Lots of possibilities!

ELEPHANT EARS
(nabbed off the internet -- click here for original recipe)

1⁄2 cup milk
3⁄4 cup water
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 teaspoon salt
1⁄4 cup sugar
3 cups flour
2 teaspoons yeast

Add all ingredients to the bowl of a bread maker and set on the dough cycle. Or, mix vigorously in a large mixing bowl and let rise until double in bulk. [Ugh, that sounds like a lot of work.]

Turn the dough out onto a floured surface. Punch down and knead.

Roll out to about 1/8 inch thick.

Grab some dough and stretch it into the shape of an elephants ear.  [Or just round.  Round works.]

Cover and let rest for about 10 minutes.

Using a large fry pan, fill with about three inches of cooking oil. Heat until the temperature of the oil is 360 degrees. [Or, use the mini deep fryer you just bought.] If the fat is too cool, the dough will absorb the oil and if the fat is too hot, the dough will brown before it is cooked in the middle.

Lower the dough gently into the cooking oil, two or three pieces at a time. When brown on one side, turn and brown on the other side. Lift from the cooking oil with a fork or tongs and drain on paper towels.

Brush the fried dough with melted butter and sprinkle with powdered or cinnamon sugar. [Or better yet, a mixture of granulated sugar and cinnamon, with proportionately more cinnamon.  Also, go light on the butter...and use an unsalted butter if possible.  Use just enough butter so that the cinnamon sugar sticks.]

This is what happens when you put your leftover
Elephant Ear Dough in the fridge.  We named it Leon
(any "Airplane" fans in the audience?).  Leon got a
little bit bigger and then got crusty and collapsed
over the course of the Fair At Home. 
Sounds about right. 

MINI DEEP FRYER

I LOVE this little fryer!  It was perfect for two hungry adults.  The only reason I would consider getting a bigger one would be to allow for more fry bread or elephant ears to be made at the same time.

We were concerned that there might be some large hot oil pops (or modest explosions) so we did all of our frying outside.  We had absolutely no issues with the hot oil being scary, so we will comfortably fry inside next time.  The only mess was the dribbles of batter from transporting from the batter bowl to the fryer.

I bought this online from Target in May 2020 for $30.  Apparently Target doesn't sell it anymore?  A friend found it at Allbrands.com for a bit more.  Also on Amazon.  Really happy with it so far!

Bake me a cake as fast as you can

Rob turned a big birthday last week. He’s never really been keen on celebrating birthdays so it wasn’t terribly uncharacteristic that we spent his Big Birthday Ending in Zero wedged in small seats munching on peanuts and pretzels. We had places to go and people to see.

Nevertheless, I didn’t want his birthday to go completely unfeted. So yesterday I decided I would make him dinner AND his favorite cake in belated celebration.

After a full day of book study, haircut, gym, grocery shopping, and being on call for a friend having outpatient fun, I finally flopped home and decided I could get a cake in the oven before collapsing on the couch for a spell.

Now since you know me and my kitchen prowess, you don’t need to ask if the cake was from scratch. You might instead ask me which brand of boxed cake mix I bought. To which I would answer I invited Betty Crocker to the party.

Knowing better than to try to do a layer cake (hahahaha!), I reached into the dark depths of our Baking Cupboard and finally scrounged up a 9x13 pan suitable for both baking AND serving.  It may not be pretty but it's efficient.  Yay efficient baking!

I honestly can’t remember the last time I used the cake pan (sorry, Rob) so I’m not sure when the rust splotches dotting the bottom and sides of the pan appeared. After trying to scrub them for a bit, I decided maybe 25 years was a good life for a pan and perhaps I should toss it and buy an unrusty one.

I read the mix instructions again and noticed that there was an oven temperature option for using a glass dish. I have glass dishes! A 9x13 one even! Without rust! My well-stocked but oft-avoided kitchen saved the day!

I whisked right along, dumping in oil and water and three newly-purchased eggs. I dirtied a spatula and a measuring cup and the counter. I was baking!

While the cake baked at 350, I busied myself cracking and disposaling 10 eggs that reportedly expired on Feb 2. Of this year, thankfully, but still. I was just grateful they were still mostly liquid. And that I had thought to purchase their replacements earlier in the day.

When the timer rang, I was on the phone discussing the outpatient fun, so Rob kindly offered to do the toothpick test. He set the timer for a few more minutes and motioned that when it rang again, the cake would be ready.

When I took the cake out 3 minutes later, it looked so pretty! Yellow cakey goodness just waiting for chocolate frosting. I went back to the couch for more flopping while the cake cooled and I summoned the energy to start dinner.

Sometime later, Rob observed from the kitchen, “I don’t think it was done after all.”

“What?”

“The cake. I don’t think it cooked long enough.”

Wondering why he was already digging in with knife and fork without the icing on the cake, I unpeeled myself from the couch and arrived in the kitchen without my camera. I should have known better.

The center of the cake had deflated. Like the entire center. Like it looked like I had cooked the cake with a brick artfully placed in the center so as to leave an impressively symmetric divot. Actually, my cake looked suspiciously like the Pineapple Upside Down Danish of a few years ago. I may be inept in the kitchen but at least I’m consistent?

I stared at it, thinking maybe the divot would be a great place to put lots of frosting to even everything out. I then grabbed a toothpick and performed voodoo all over the cake. Gooeyness. Oops.

Rob… an incredibly supportive and highly experienced good sport when it comes to my “cooking”… suggested with enthusiasm that we could just cut out the center part and turn the cake into a Bundt cake. Brilliant! I know what a Bundt cake is! Plus, he loves cake batter (it’s his favorite ice cream flavor), so he could just eat the gooey center part as an appetizer. Is he awesome or what?

I got a knife and glopped the liquidish yellow confection onto a plate and handed Rob a fork. Two bites in, he dabbed his tongue with his finger and produced an egg shell.

Two more bites and some rooting around and it was clear…that one shell fragment wasn’t an anomaly.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I am 48 years old and somehow I managed to ruin a cake…from a cake mix…with just three added ingredients…not just one but TWO ways. I should just hang up my mixing bowl right now. Please? Good Lord!

Looking at the clock and insistent on baking a cake for Rob, I decided that I still had time to run to the store for another box AND a new baking pan and still have dinner in prime time. Barely.

40 minutes later, I was washing my new pan. Rob, the prophetic man that he is, cautioned, “Please don’t rush.” How does that man read my mind?!

Going in slo-mo, I opened the second box of mix and realized I had gotten a different brand. Why do the two biggest brands of cake mix use the same two primary colors on their boxes? Without meaning to, I had thrown Betty out of the party and invited Duncan instead. Whatever. Cake mix is cake mix, right? As long as it isn’t crunchy?

Mix, oil, and water were in the bowl, along with my first of three eggs. Being ever so careful not to add any texture to the cake this time, I apparently was a little too focused and did something I have never ever done with an egg in my life. Not even when I was five years old and my grandma was teaching me how to make scrambled eggs.

I cracked the second egg on the counter and it fell completely out of the shell all over the faux granite. As I tried to scoop it all up and keep salmonella from hitting the floor, I started to laugh. Not quite crying laughter but close. Rob appeared as if on command.

“Do you have any more eggs?”

“Of course not. I only bought a half-pack.” Still laughing.

A spatula and plate later, we had scooped up most of the free-range pre-chicken off the counter and into the bowl.

I am relieved to report that 27 minutes later I was victorious over the second attempt at the cake. It baked just as promised without crunch or goo.  I even managed to get the frosting applied without cutting my tongue on the unnecessarily sharp Cutco spreader thingy afterwards (you don't do that twice, believe you me).

Undecorated victory is mine!  But the cake is Rob's

I also have completed an unintended taste-off between the two major cake mix brands. I can now proclaim Betty a better dessert guest than Duncan, despite the fact she is currently lounging in our trash can.  You'll be at our next party, Betty!  Crunch- and goo-free!  Hopefully.

Salvaged from our recycling bin just in time

The Stressed Chef

It sounded like a great idea back in July. Surely I would be recovered from the Fair after four days of rest. And be interested in food again. And it truly did sound like a great way to “stock my freezer full of delicious meals!” And preparing meals with a bunch of like-minded gals would provide lots of girl bonding, right?

All that delusion is how I ended up at a Pampered Chef party last night. And how I am even more achy and tired today. Oy.

The party was a bit different from other Pampered Chef parties. I think. I don’t know for sure because I have expertly avoided them until now. Because, well, I don’t cook. I don’t like to cook. The only reason I have a kitchen is because it came with the house. The best thing I make is reservations. We have pizza places on speed dial. All that.

So people know it’s rather futile to invite me to cooking-oriented demonstrations. Especially after that one Cutco knife in-home demo in which I showed the young sales person the scars on three fingers from having used knives that were too sharp. I’m a disaster in the kitchen. It’s a proven fact.


The cold hard facts
But THIS party wasn’t a typical Pampered Chef party. THIS party involved handing over $80, getting a shopping list, going to the grocery store, and hauling all my ingredients to Gretchen’s house in a large cooler and four shopping totes. There would be recipes provided and we would spend the evening happily assembling meals that are stored in the freezer until I am ready to make dinner.

This Freezer Party thing is billed as a great way to fit delicious home cooked food into your busy life! Let's meet up and prep meals to freeze and cook later! WHOO HOO!!

I was sure this would be easy shmeasy. Especially since I have done exactly this type of thing at those meal prep places like Dinner’s Ready and Dream Dinners. At those places, I show up, throw some prepared ingredients in a freezer bag, make maybe 15-20 meals in less than 2 hours, and I’m outta there pretending all the while that I can cook.

With Gretchen’s party, I wasn’t exactly sure how Pampered Chef was involved, other than they might try to sell me a spatula or a knife or something. Also $80 sounds like a HUGE bargain for 10 meals. Even more of a mindblower when I realized the meals served 4 so I could split them in half and have 20 meals for me and Rob for just $80. $2 a serving? Seriously? See why I signed up??

Somewhere in the midst of the Fair, Gretchen mailed out the shopping list. She warned it would add maybe another $60 to our $80, based on the last time she did one of the parties. Even so, $140 for 20 2-person meals that I could pretend I had slaved over was still a steal at just $3.50 per serving.

“I think I might need help grocery shopping,” I warned Rob two days ago as I finally reviewed the 2-page list of assorted ingredients. I often ask him to tag along for the heavy lifting.

“Is there a lot of stuff?”

“Well, no, it’s not really that bad. It’s the meat.”


Assistance needed in the meat department, please
This is where I need to explain that buying meat terrifies me. I don’t understand it. Recipes will say something benign like “4 lb pot roast” but then there is nothing in the meat case that is labeled “pot roast.” Apparently it is universally assumed that everyone knows that a “pot roast” is actually called a “chuck roast.” Why don’t we just call a pot a chuck then? Why the double speak? It’s like talking to someone in IT, this whole meat thing. It’s its own language and I’m convinced it’s designed to make cook-friendly carnivores feel smarter and fancypants somehow.

Rob looked at the list. Chicken breasts, stew meat, diced ham. We agreed I could handle those. The sirloin steak made me a bit nervous, though. And then the pork loin chops. Are those with or without bones? And how thick should they be because we’ve gotten some from Costco that were like an entire 4-H hog show's worth of loins.

But I really started to get twitchy with the required beef chuck roast and beef short ribs. Yes, I know a chuck is a pot but I’ve been deceived before. And ribs. “Beef short ribs” sounds so temptingly simple but bones or no bones? Rack or individual? And golly, 4-5 pounds of them sure sounded like a lot.

Rob smiled at me and assured me I would be fine. He could stay home and tend to the languishing mostly-ignored-for-10-days garden.

Off to the store, I had confidently crossed off all the produce items and the 8oz block of cheese from my list when I found myself face to face with the meat department.

Taking a deep breath, I started easy and grabbed the stew meat. Then the diced ham. Except, grrr, there wasn’t the size bag I needed. They only had small bags. I started feeling that itchiness of frustration rise. I calmed myself and resolutely put two of the bags in my cart.

OK, now chicken breasts. Let’s see, I need…16-24 chicken breasts?!!? That’s like an entire coop of chickens! I have never bought that many chicken boobs at once in my life!

Scratching around the poultry section, I only found packages of 2 or 4 breasts. I then started eyeing some frozen packages but, not clear on how I would be preparing my breasts, I decided that might not be a good option.

As the itchiness returned, I concluded that I would stop by a different store on the way home. There is a religious group here that has BIG families and they all shop at that other store. That store MUST have large quantities of chicken breasts at value prices, I assured myself as I circled “16-24 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (min 8 lbs)” on my list and moved on.

And then got stuck again. The pot chuck roast things were all too big. The sirloin steaks were $13 each and I needed 2 of them. The pork loins came in too many different thicknesses. But it was the beef short ribs that sent me to the brink of my composure.

“What the HELL is ‘flanken’ style ribs?!?” (Fun Fact: spell check doesn’t know either)

I paced the meat cases as my anxiety rose. I started to have flashbacks to that time I was shopping in Babies R Us for a shower gift and had absolutely no clue what I was looking at or for. None of the words were familiar. Sling seat. Nasal aspirator. Boppy pillow. Butt Paste. It was a foreign language. And much like that time, I started to try to give myself a pep talk next to the ground hamburger (with the shower, I think it was the burp rags).

“Toni, get a grip. You are a grown woman. You are an intelligent woman. You can figure this out. You WILL NOT be taken down by beef ribs, short or otherwise. Now hold it together. You can cry in the car later. YOU WILL NOT CRY in front of the cow parts.”

It was here that I called Rob, desperately hoping he might be running an errand or grabbing lunch somewhere nearby. Disastrously, he was at home.

“Ask the butcher for help.”

Yes, that was also his manly, meat-savvy advice with the Dead Bird Pot Roast Incident of 2011. And still 4 years later, I could not muster the self-confidence to admit defeat by short ribs to the guy in the white coat and hair net.

“I think I need to regroup. I’m going to move on to another section of my list. There are a lot of cans listed. I understand cans. I like cans. I’m going to go buy some cans.”

Almost suppressing his amusement, Rob told me he loved me and assured me I could handle grocery shopping.

I ended up at that other store. That other store spoke in Basic Meat, not the graduate level flanken that the other store did. They also had many many many Value Right packages of chicken breasts. Score!

Relieved and no longer fearing a public meltdown, I hoisted my 20 lbs of meat onto the conveyor belt.  Much to my disappointment, there was no commentary from the cashier. I had conquered the meat department!!!  I was buying more meat...all by myself!...than I ever have in my life!!!! I wanted to talk about it! Aaaaand….nothing.

So grateful I have a blog.


The Party
Ok, so we’ve established that am confused by meat and I hate to cook.

Also, I should note, I am an easily distracted cook. I must concentrate when I am measuring or determining ingredients or cutting something. I can submit as proof numerous baking disasters including similarly white ingredients, and those knife cut scars I mentioned earlier. I need quiet and calm and no talking when I am cooking. In fact, please don’t hang out with me in my kitchen and talk to me if I am cooking you dinner. It only distracts me and it might mean moving the dinner party to Urgent Care.

So given this, why I thought a cooking party was a good idea, I have no freakin’ idea.

I guess it hadn’t really occurred to me that we would be cutting stuff up. Those meal prep places have that all done for you. You just match the ingredients with color-coded spoons representing measurements and dump it in your baggie. It’s cooking Garanimals style. It’s cooking Toni style.

If I had put two brain cells together, it would have been obvious that I would be doing all the prep myself. All the prep using all the fabulous products and gadgets offered by Pampered Chef. It’s a product demo party – DUH!!

But somehow I missed that (Fair head) so I found myself having to cook last night. I had to chop and dice and measure. And worry about contaminating Gretchen's kitchen with salmonella with my 17 chicken breasts.

Since I was splitting the 4-person recipes in half, I also got to do math. I believe I will forever remember than half of a tablespoon is equal to 1.5 teaspoons. And that 1/6 of a cup equals 3 tablespoons.

That last one was amusing to figure out. I needed half of a third of a cup. I was talking out loud, confirming my math.

“OK, so a half of a third is a sixth, right? Does anyone have a one-sixth cup measuring cup? Oh, wait, here’s a big one that has one-fourth and one-eighth marked, so I could just measure half-way between those, right?”

At this point, Gretchen was consulting her measurement conversion chart and murmuring, “This is why I teach first grade.”


A pinch of this, a dash of that
The measuring thing was a bit of an adventure, too. It turns out that my $80 up front bought me a whole bunch of special Pampered Chef spices that were critical to the recipes. Nine bottles of stuff like Asian Seasoning Mix, and Crushed Peppercorn and Garlic Rub, and Lemon Rosemary Rub, and Three Onion Rub. So many rubs!

You’ll notice that they are in alphabetical order. Because now that I am home, they are. But at Gretchen’s house, I resisted the urgent need to be efficient and organized. Because well, I’m publicly quirky enough as it is.

I was told that the caps of the rubs had little lines in them to serve as measuring spoons. But with having to halve, I determined that using the fancy Pampered Chef multi-measuring spoon was more precise. Except that all of its fanciness didn’t fit into any of the bottles.

Now if you are in the business of making things handy in the kitchen...and you have your own line of $8 spice bottles AND your own line of measuring spoons...wouldn’t you think it would be an obvious conclusion to design your spoons to fit inside your expensive bottles? Wouldn’t that convenience be a point of differentiation? Don’t you suppose cooks might pay extra for that “isn’t that clever” timesaver? Ummm, hello?

So yeah, I kinda wasn’t sold on the Pampered Chef gadgetry. Now mind you, I don’t enjoy cooking so maybe I’m missing something. On the other hand, I might very well be one of their key targets – the Reluctant Cook who needs expensive tools and implements to make the kitchen experience fun and exciting. If that’s the case, they missed their mark.

Like, for example the can openers that nobody could figure out how to use so we all felt stupid. Once the cans were opened – typically by the Consultant’s helper – we then had to use a special tool on the opener itself to take the lid off. The little grabber tool was so tiny and hard to see, I had to take my glasses off, too. Gretchen eventually rescued us by sneaking us her old-fashioned opener when the Pampered Consultant wasn’t looking.

Or the guillotine-like chopper for the bell peppers that looked like one of those apple corer things but with even sharper blades and a base that required precision. I had been chopping along just fine the old fashioned way, but the Consultant showed me how I could lose about 2 minutes and a finger if I used the Veggie Wedger instead.

I had made a little pile of chopped peppers and zucchini and was scooping it up with my hands to dump in my freezer bag when the Consultant showed me a fancier way. Instead of having to wash my hands, I could wash my hands AND a fancy little scraper thing to push the veggies into a pile. Then I could add the table and floor to my clean-up duties when about 10% of my veggies went sideways while trying to transfer them to the bag. Yay, thanks Pampered Chef!

The fast chopper thing that worked by pounding on a plunger to chop was pretty cool. I worked out a lot of stress on that. In other news, I think I might have over-chopped the onions. And the carrots. And the celery. But I was in a better mood afterwards.

I was working on grating an 8oz block cheese with a fancy gadget when the Consultant happened by.

“How are you liking that grater? Pretty handy, huh?”

At this point I was unfortunately past the point of pretending I was feeling pampered. I looked at her with a weary smile and said, “Honestly, I usually buy cheese that’s already grated. This is a lot more work than I would put in at home.”

That then led to a discussion about how the pre-grated stuff has added cornstarch to keep the cheese from clumping, all the while I was thinking, “Other than the fact that it is white, I like cornstarch. Cornstarch is not a problem for me. Am I supposed to be anti-cornstarch? Why is cornstarch bad?”


Did I mention I hate cooking?
I did my best to enjoy the party, I really did. It was a fun group of women and I enjoyed their teen kids. And the sample meal we had as a snack was pretty tasty.

But eventually, after I had completed 12 of my 20 baggies, I sort of hit a wall. I was tired, my body hurt from standing, my head hurt from the helpers' toddler and his baby sister just doing what kids do.

I had danced around the kitchen quite a bit, moving from my small work station near the Scentsy candle to the cutting station to the grating station to the trash bag to the recycling box to the sink. All the while trying not to bump into one of the other dancing cooks. Gretchen’s mom and I are pretty chummy now even though we didn’t say much to each other besides “So sorry! Excuse me! Whoops!”

In all fairness, I did sort of enjoy the first 6-8 meals. I was zipping along and enjoying listening to the chatter in the kitchen.  After that, though, I was singularly focused on using up all my $139.17 worth of groceries and stuffing them in my freezer for some eventually use. I really hope they end up being edible and that I actually put in approximately the right amounts of the right ingredients. I really have no idea. I’m just relieved nothing was white.


My other options were some scrapers or a recipe book. Obvious choice.
When I got home about 3.5 hours later, I hobbled into the house smelling of assorted rubs.

“How did it go?”

“So much cooking. So much cooking. I’m never doing that again. So much cooking.”

I shared with Rob some of the highlights of the evening, including the fact that I had won a prize.

“Cool! What did you win?”

“A brush thing. I don’t know what it’s for. She said she uses hers for everything.”

Evident that we are still in the midst of our master shower reconstruction, I added, “It looks like it’s for grout.”

Rob burst into laughter. Because really, why would a kitchen gadget company give away a grout brush as a prize?

Well, the joke’s on him.

I fished out the brush this morning to take a closer look. It is officially a “Dual-Sided Cleaning Brush” that is “...the ultimate cleaning tool for areas...around faucets, sinks, drains, and grout lines.”

HA! I'm good at cleaning. I like to clean. Maybe I do have a future in the kitchen after all!

The fruit of my loins...sort of

At least the house smells great

I thought bread machines were supposed to be foolproof?  Sigh.

The biggest difference with this loaf -- other than its poofiness and the uncommon strength it took to open the poof-sealed lid -- was the inaugural use of pure, freshly ground whole wheat flour.  Flour we watched being ground right before our eyes from little grains of wheat.  Flour ground using water power from a river and flume and stuff.

Our flour source.  Aka "It's hard to take a bad photo here"

I guess the moral of this story is:  Great-grandma didn't have enriched flour so great-grandma probably didn't use a bread machine either.

At least we know enough not to top it with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"...

And by the way, it tastes heavenly.

I'm really not making any of this up

I was looking through some old photos recently and came across one that I knew required sharing.

Dedicated Woodhaven Ramblings readers know that I have something of an amusing history attempting to cook and bake without killing anyone, going to the emergency room, or meeting the new guys at the fire station.

Just in case you thought I might be taking some literary license with my cooking stories or that my culinary prowess is a somewhat recent development, I submit you this:

The photo was taken in the early 1990s, probably our first or second Christmas together. Rob and I are sitting in my parents' livingroom and I have just opened a very appropriate gift from Mom and Dad:  a fire extinguisher.

This was in response to my early marriage attempt to make toasted garlic bread with dinner.  I got a little distracted and sort of forgot about the bread under the broiler and ended up setting off the smoke alarm.

Instead of removing the charring smoke source from the oven, I instead focused on trying to make the annoying beeping stop.  Because that's just the sort of cook I am.  As I stood on a chair trying to disconnect the batteries (totally unsuccessfully, mind you, since the alarm was hard-wired into the ceiling), the doorbell rang and Rob opened the front door to our apartment.

As a plume of smoke billowed out into the breezeway, a crowd of concerned neighbors asked if everything was OK.

Rob's timeless response:  "Oh, everything's fine.  My wife is just cooking."

I'd love to say this is my very first cooking-gone-awry story, but's it's not.  It was my very first fire extinguisher, though.

"Hey, batter, batter!" aka More Fun in the Kitchen

Welcome to the first installment of the 2014 edition of Mishaps in My Kitchen.

We have a small group of friends that meets monthly and rotates hosting duties. We've been doing it for about 5 years so everyone is well-versed with my cooking skillz. I'm honestly impressed they still show up when it's our turn to host. Perhaps it's because we are always sure to serve wine to help soften the blow of what might appear on their plates. Soft lighting helps, too. Tricks of the trade.

I was confident about the entree since I had made it once before for a different set of trusting, adventuresome friends. It was while revisiting my recipe box that I landed on the brilliant idea to make a Pineapple Upside Down Cake for dessert. Do you sense where we are going? Yes, sticky is the word of the day.

The recipe was from my grandma on my dad's side. She's a feisty 88-year-old whom I've never known to really enjoy cooking despite the fact that she taught me how to make scrambled eggs when I was 5. Such an auspicious beginning that ultimately led to us both preferring restaurants whenever possible.

So since the recipe came from my non-cooking grandma...and since the ingredients were simply 1 stick of butter, 1 box of brown sugar, 1 can of crushed pineapple, and 1 box of cake mix, I figured it was Toni-proof and a guaranteed success. I mean, truly, how hard can four ingredients be? Especially since I remembered happily making pineapple upside down cakes when I was in junior high. I was experienced in PUDs. I had this.

Things moved delightfully along as I assembled the pineapple bottom-but-eventually-top and the cake mix top-but-eventually-bottom. I hit a bit of a snag when I realized I had absolutely no platter or plate that would accommodate a 9"x13" Pyrex being flipped onto it. But sudden inspiration struck and I covered a cookie sheet with aluminum foil and set it aside for the eventual flipping. Yes, I had this indeed.

The recipe warned that I would need to cook the cake longer than the directions on the mix box. The specific timing per Grandma was "when the aroma starts to drift, start testing for doneness." Well, that happened about 10 minutes into my planned 40 minutes so I started to get a little twitchy.

When the timer beeped at 40 minutes, I pulled out the dish with a toothpick at the ready. However, when I observed the cake part wiggling like pudding, I astutely assessed the cake unfinished and pushed its untested self back into the oven for another 10 minutes.

At 50 minutes, the top of the cake was alarmingly past "golden brown" but the pineapple bottom was very liquidy and boiling. I wasn't sure what to make of that development, and Grandma's card was of no help, so I decided to test the cake with my toothpick. It came out clean all over the place, so I decided the bubbling was just part of the fun. I removed the dish from the oven and consulted Grandma's recipe once again. The next and final instruction:

"When finished baking, flip immediately onto plate or platter."

Looking at the bubbling pineapple, I am proud to say I thought better of my flat cookie sheet and switched to one with sides. As I tried to figure out how to flip a hot 13" baking dish onto an 18" cookie sheet, I gave myself a virtual pat on the back for switching from fabric hot pads to easily rinsed silicone ones.

Studying the situation one last time, I also opted for performing The Flip over the sink instead of the counter and floor. I will admit, I was swelling with pride of my newfound Kitchen Street Smarts. Two years ago I would not have thought through all these potential disasters. I may still not know how to cook, but I am getting much better at knowing how to avoid huge clean-up projects. I may not have had this after all, but at least I had something.

So with a deep breath and a quick prayer to Betty Crocker, I flipped. And....oozy, sticky, bubbly, chunky pineappley lava flowed all over my cake, foil, cookie sheet, hot pads, and sink.

With the glass dish still sitting on the cake, I watched as cake batter rose to the top and created an explosive layer between the cake and glass. Wondering if perhaps the batter was supposed to continue cooking under the dish...but having run out of instructions from Grandma...I did what any modern-day Kitchen Maven does: I Googled "pineapple upside down cake." And...sensing the theme of this story...grabbed my camera.

I quickly found a similar recipe that suggested that the dish remain in place "for several minutes" to help the topping set. That generated some relief, although with most of my topping lolling about in the sink I wasn't so sure how the dish was going to help it set.

It turned out the dish remained in place for more than several minutes since it took me a while to figure how to extricate it from the sticky ooze that was quickly cementing it to my cookie sheet. With a knife, sticky silicone mittens, and a few choice words I finally removed the hot dish and watched with fascination as the cake batter rearranged itself and finally sunk into a pit in the middle of my cake.

I poked around with a butter knife and concluded the outer edges of the cake had baked but the center had not. Yes, I know, I'm brilliant.

As for the pineapple, well, it was sort of everywhere except on top on my cake. It was at this moment that I made two decisions: 1) I would call Rob to request he pick up Dessert Plan B at the grocery store on his way home; and 2) I would save what remained of Plan A so our friends could enjoy the full visual experience of Dinner By Toni.

Rob arrived home about 2 hours later with a red velvet cake from Safeway. I showed him my Upside Down Disaster. By this point, the batter had been absorbed and the cake actually looked much more appetizing than it had right after The Flip. I noted this to Rob.

"Really?" His tone suggested that the red velvet cake was more salvation than I realized.

When our friends arrived, I was informed that the house smelled wonderful and that pineapple upside down cake was a favorite. Then I pointed to my version, which was looking a lot like a Danish at this point. It was reiterated that the house smelled great.

Much to my surprise, when it came time for dessert, everyone except Rob opted for a piece of the PUD mush. Did I mention my friends are awesome and truly have a sense of adventure when they come to Woodhaven for dinner? And yes, we had wine with dinner.

The friends deemed the mush "pretty good" which was far too gracious. The middle part tasted very much like cake batter because, well, it was. Jerry noted that while the cake had a pineapple flavor, he didn't really taste any actual pineapple. True enough since most of the fruit had ended up in my sink.

Pam recalled the first time she had a pineapple upside down cake; a stunning dessert with beautiful pineapple rings on top dotted with maraschino cherries. Cathy agreed that's how she had always seen pineapple upside down cakes presented. I conceded that was how practically every version on Google looked. My grandma: always daring to be different. I then silently reflected on the PUD Cakes I had made successfully in junior high and realized they were from a kit and used the new trendy kitchen appliance: the microwave oven. So success was relative, as was edibility.

I'm honestly not sure if I am ever going to try a PUD again, at least not until we buy stock in 409 All-Purpose Cleaner. If I did venture down the sticky PUD Path again, I'd definitely replace the pineapple chunks with pineapple rings. But really, I think it would just be a lot easier to make a cake using pineapple juice instead of water and then serve it with a side of pineapple chunks and cherries.

Wow, look at that! Me thinking outside the recipe! There might be hope for me yet. But we'll keep stocked with wine just in case.

The Death Peaches Story

We've had a delightfully dry summer here at Woodhaven. Something like 80+ days with only one of them with measureable rain. I truly have never seen the landscape here so brown. Yet my inner Californian still gasps at all the green fir trees.

With that deliciously lingering sun came a garden more bountiful than any of our eight years here. Yes, folks, we actually grew enough RED tomatoes this year for me to make some salsa! And not just make salsa...can salsa. Yep, a couple of days ago I broke through the cobwebs in the garage and resuscitated my canner and Ball jars and rings and lids. Whoo hoo!

My kitchen covered in tomato peels and jalapenos seeds brought to mind one of the first "transplanted Californian attempts life on the farm" essays I ever wrote. In fact, when I wrote it I didn't really understand that I like to write. I didn't even know exactly why I was writing the piece at all. But when I was finished, I thought my friends I left behind in the San Francisco suburbs might get a giggle out of my experience so I emailed it off. Their supportive reaction eventually lead to the inception of Woodhaven Ramblings.

And so, in honor of my four successful pints of Hot Tomato-Pepper Salsa, I give you "The Death Peaches Story" written in September 2004.

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So we’re still adjusting to our new life in the country. The coyotes howling at night – almost on our front porch – will still take some getting used to, as will the sight of our mail carrier as she drives around in her personal car (an old maroon station wagon with a “US Mail” sign temporarily attached to the roof), steering with her left hand, reaching through her passenger window with her right to deliver the mail. The most amazing part is that she sits in the middle of the front seat as she drives. We haven’t quite figured out how she works the gas and brake pedals, and we can only hope she is not driving a manual transmission.

Another new discovery is the pervasiveness of canning. All the grocery stores, discount stores, and hardware stores have aisles dedicated to canning equipment. The newspaper has had a variety of articles about how and what to can, this being the season of many ripe fruits and vegetables. Everyone here, it seems, cans. Over the past two years, I’ve tiptoed into the World of Canning with a few friends. I’ve assisted in making salsa and blackberry jam. It was actually a lot of fun and, as an assistant, it was not nearly as hard as I imagined. So when my mom visited a few weeks ago and spoke wistfully of spiced peaches her grandmother used to can, I got inspired.

Much like a novice tennis player who can’t hit the ball to save her life but has an array of adorable little tennis outfits just perfect for the court, I immediately went out and got myself situated with all the necessary canning equipment. I got me a canner, a rack, a jar grabber, a lid lifter, a funnel, a bubble remover, a set of jars and lids, and, feeling optimistic that this would be a life-long hobby, a food mill for all those seedless creations I envisioned. I stopped short of getting the dehydrator, figuring I needed to leave something for Rob to get me for Christmas.

And, of course, I bought The Blue Book. The Blue Book is a recipe book put out by Ball Canning that has all the hints, tips, and recipes a hobbyist canner could want. And in The Blue Book was a recipe for Honey Spiced Peaches. Fabulous! What could be a better Christmas gift for Mom than homemade spiced peaches canned by her own suburban daughter? So, 8 pounds of peaches and the largest squeeze bottle of honey I’ve ever seen later, I was ready to embark on my Maiden Solo Voyage into The World of Canning.

I studied The Blue Book the night before, as if cramming for an exam. I planned out the sequence of events and assembled all my ingredients. The next morning, looking very domestic in my apron, I filled the canner (an enormous pot) with the directed amount of water and set it on the stove to get it simmering. I put the jars in the dishwasher to sterilize them and keep them warm. Following the directions, I was amazed by how relatively easy it was to peel the peaches. Turns out you do this thing called blanching, which up till now I thought only horrified faces did. The things you learn by reading cookbooks!

I made my syrup and got my spices all measured out and set aside. Everything seemed to be going just fine. I was feeling rather impressed with myself. I checked the recipe one more time. The next step was to pack the whole peaches into the warm jars and then pour the spices and syrup over them leaving a one-half inch head space. I referred to the diagram once again to remind myself what the heck a “one-half inch head space” is. From there I was to put the still-warm jars into the canner, making sure the water level was at least an inch above the tops of the jars, turn the heat up to medium-high, get the water boiling, and let the jars of peaches hang out in the boiling hot water for 25 minutes. Easy enough.

I got out my slotted spoon (another term learned from a cookbook), carefully retrieved a peach from the syrup, and moved it toward the perfectly warmed jar. I blanched. The mouth of the jar was too small. There was no way this or any of my other 19 carefully peeled peaches was going to fit into any of my 3 jars. Turns out there are “regular-mouthed” and “wide-mouthed” jars. Who knew?? (OK, yes, everyone else in my town knew.) And guess which one I had?

I stared at the peaches, all warming in syrup, and at my jars, all carefully cleaned, sterilized, and warm. From my careful study of The Blue Book, I understood the importance of temperature and cleanliness in canning to prevent spoilage…and death (the book was only a little subtle about trying not to kill yourself or loved ones with bacteria). There was no way I could run down to the hardware store to get the proper jars. And after so much effort (ever peeled 19 peaches??), there was no way I was going to trash everything and start over. So, I did the only thing I could think of and I got a knife and started cutting the peaches in half and taking out the pits.

Now, this seems like a pretty easy and logical solution. But have you ever read The Blue Book? Every few pages it seems, there’s another warning about not changing ANYTHING in the recipes. They make it quite clear that all of the recipes are carefully constructed to maintain proper pH levels and temperature and blah blah blah so as not to allow nasty things to grow in your preserved food. Change one thing, missy, and it will be death to you.

Tightening my apron, I closed The Blue Book with all its doomsaying and rather stickily crammed my cut and pitted peaches into my 3 jars. After filling up the jars with syrup and spices, I then had to remove all the air bubbles. I remembered The Blue Book arrogantly telling me I had to remove all the air bubbles trapped in the jars, even the ones I couldn’t see. Yeah, thanks, THAT’s a lot of help. But, I had some fancy bubble remover thing and went to work poking it around inside the jars.

Indeed, air bubbles did rise to the surface…and stayed there. Some of the bigger ones popped but others just divided into smaller ones. I spent a good 20 minutes trying to pop those silly bubbles. Around and around the jars. The more I poked, the more new bubbles appeared. Eventually I had a nice foam hat on the top of each set of peaches. I tried to get most of that out with my bubble popper but it was at the point that any movement in the jar created more bubbles. Deciding that a little air never killed anyone (fie on you, Blue Book!), I concluded I was done and put the lukewarm lids on the jars.

Of course, by the time I was done with this stage, the jars were no longer warm and the water in the canner was a bit too hot. Fine, whatever. I put the jars in the rack, lowered the rack into the canner, and discovered I needed to add about 5 more inches of water to the pot. Easy enough. Of course, adding 5 inches of water to a very large pot made the water temperature in the pot drop dramatically, so I threw to knob up to “High” and waited for the pot to boil. And waited. And waited. And waited. I even watched for a while. And waited some more. About an hour later, the pot was boiling and I was ready to set my timer for 25 minutes.

About this time, Rob returned home from his errands. He found me sticky and grumpy. The look on my face made it clear that, unlike in the jars, my bubble had burst. My dreams of making homemade canned fruits, vegetables, and sauces were over. I explained the jar fiasco to him and he said, “Yeah, I wondered about that this morning.” Yes, everyone in town…including my husband…knew.

It’s been a few days now and I have 3 jars of Honey Spiced Peaches on my shelf. They look harmless enough. I’m thinking I’ll wait a few months and then will open a jar and taste them. If I don’t die, I’ll give the other two jars to my mom and grandma for Christmas. In the meantime, I’m thinking I’ll try apple butter next. I get to use the food mill for that.


EPILOGUE:

Eight years later, I still have a jar of the peaches in my fridge. They are usually crammed in the back on the top shelf, typically unseen. The occasional houseguest, of the sort that knows me well enough to know the answer is likely worth the etiquette risk, will inquire what the heck they are and if they are toxic. Rob has asked a few times why they are still in there and if they will ever leave. All I can offer is that they make me smile. Smile at myself, smile at my novice kitchen skills, smile at my determination to assimilate into country living one of these days, and smile at the first hint of realizing that I actually love to write.

Skeletons in the pantry

It's Christmastime!! Which, of course, means it is time for me to venture into the kitchen and pretend I'm domesticated.

I love cookies at Christmas, especially those peanut butter ones spiked with Hershey Kisses. But, as much as I loathe cooking, baking brings on shear panic. I think it's the fact that all the ingredients are white, therefore practically ensuring a devastating switcheroo of ingredients. Like salt and sugar. Or baking powder and baking soda. That one is particularly tricky since not only are they are both white, they both start with "baking." Nevertheless, I have both in my pantry. And have for a very, very long time.

In preparation recently for a Cookie Baking Afternoon with some young friends, I started making a list of the necessary ingredients. What ensued was a rather amusing conversation on Facebook. I've reposted it here, with some editorial comments along the way. I'll just say right now that I am planning to keep the containers and exhibit them in some fashion similar to my Fork Art. Which is another story for another time but rest assured, my history of Kitchen Gaffes is long and well-documented. And on display in my kitchen. Consider yourself warned.


My Facebook status update a week or so ago, meaning December 2011:
As if we needed any more proof of my all-out avoidance of the kitchen: In making a shopping list, it just occurred to me to see if my cornstarch and baking powder had expiration dates. Yes, they do! My cornstarch expired in Nov 2003. My baking powder expired in...wait for it...Aug 1996. And it's still half full. Oh, dear.


Kayleigh: If this makes you feel any better, Melanie was born in 1995. :p [Kayleigh is 19, Melanie is her sister. They and their younger sister were my Cookie Baking Buddies. And no, it didn't really make me feel any better.]

Rob: Does she have an expiration date?

Kayleigh: I hope not. :)

Me: Should I save it for her? You know, as a little memento of things around the time she was born? Good grief -- my baking powder could have its driver's permit!!!

Kayleigh: HAHAHA oh boy. See, instead of having kids, I just need to buy corn starch and not have to deal with changing diapers or them going through puberty! Perfect. :) [She's a smart one, that Kayleigh.]

Gretchen [Kayleigh's mom]: OH MY GOSH!!! I love you Toni! Thanks for the great laugh! Doesn't that mean that you packed them and brought them with you from California? So not only are they old, but they have travelled as well! [Oh, dear.]

Me: Excellent thinking, Kayleigh! My baking powder and cornstarch have been very quiet and largely independent in my pantry. Not a peep, no maintenance, although I do wonder if maybe they've gone bad. Which no parent wants...

Kayleigh: Oooooh... Yeah that wouldn't be good. Just go give them a scolding. :)

Me: Worse Gretchen...the reason I thought to check was I was reflecting on the fact that both canisters had parts of their labels missing from when we taped them down with packing tape when we moved...7 years ago. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should spring for some prettier containers [because that's what real bakers have...pretty containers]...and then I thought of looking for an expiration date. I tell you, it's always amusing in my kitchen. :-D

Eileen: This thread made me laugh!!! I'd like to see the docudrama "when good cornstarch goes bad". [A former coworker and long-time friend, Eileen has been a supporter of my cooking antics for years.  She was one of the very first to know about our Thanksgiving turkey being held hostage by our oven in self-clean mode.  She was also among the first readers of my Death Peaches story.  She herself is an amazing cook and taught me the importance of presentation.  "If it looks good, it tastes better."  Hooray for artfully placed lettuce leaves and parsley!]

Kayleigh: Well I hope our ingredients for our cookies are still good. :p

Me: They will be now, Kayleigh!

Rob: How long does baking powder take to expire? There's a chance it moved twice... We've only moved twice...

Kayleigh: Ok good!! :)

Rob: I like your thought, Eileen - "Tonight on CSI:Pantry - when good cornstarch goes bad."

Gretchen: Jr [Gretchen's husband] says maybe they have critters that shouldn't have crossed the border.

Me: Looking online about the shelf life of baking powder. So far I have this nugget: "Once a can is opened, fresh baking powder should be good for 3 to 6 months."

Rob: We have exceptional baking powder!

Me: Gretchen, please tell Jr to mind his own pantry. [Truth be told, I did start to wonder if maybe I had missed something, something sort of crawly and wiggly.  I checked both canisters.  Nope.  That was something of a relief.]

Rob: And they only check for critters going *into* California, not out of California.

Eileen: Rob: You know the CSI franchise has a lot of life after they exhaust all the major cities with your idea. My pantry is full of expired spices... A cereal killer perhaps ?! (*rim shot*) [Oh, Eileen and I had a blast working together!]

Kayleigh: HAHAHA you guys make me excited to be an adult!! :) [I wondered about this comment. Excited because we still have a sense of humor at our advanced ages? Excited because if she waits long enough, she, too, might have critters living in her spice rack? I wanted to ask Kayleigh for clarification and yet I really really didn't.]

Gretchen: Exceptional baking powder for exceptional people! [I can always count on Gretchen to see the sunshine.]

Rob: In our pantry we could have a spin-off called "Chips" staring potato and tortilla. Which isn't that far off the original, come to think about it. [John and Ponch, Potato and Tortilla. Just true and politically incorrect enough to be hysterical. Oh, lordy, I love my husband!]

Me: The scary thing is...I did a total overhaul/clean-out of our pantry last winter. Or so I thought. Now I'm wondering...does margarita salt go bad? You know, the type in the little plastic sombrero??

Eileen: I think your salt is fine. Isn't it an element? [She's a smart one, that Eileen.]

Me: Just checked the sombrero. No expiration date. Although it is a bit sticky... And the sombrero is U.S. Patent No. 291,181.

Rob: That patent number is for a "cut-off valve gear" invented in 1884. I think someone's not telling the truth on your sombrero.  [He's a thorough one, that Rob.]

Rob: Ahhhh - that's a design patent, not a utility patent. It's how it looks, not how it's used. The number is right - D291181, in 1984.

Julie: LOL!!!!! [Hi, Julie! She's my cousin whom I don't chat with nearly enough.]

Rob: So we know the salt isn't older than my high-school diploma.

Me: That and that we both have a lot of time on our hands to do things like note and research patent numbers on novelty food containers.

Gretchen: you two crack me up!

Dave: this is entertaining....but on a more serious note, while shopping for baking powder a while back, I observed that one of the brands advertised, "Aluminum Free".... Are you kidding me - the other brand contains ALUMINUM? Sure enough.... Who knew??? Arrghhh!! [I had no idea my friend Dave cooked.  I also had no idea there was aluminum in baking powder.  To be honest, I have no idea what exactly baking powder is.  But perhaps the aluminum acts as a critter deterrent?  In which case, yay for aluminum!]

Marsha [an older friend who deals with a lot of chronic pain yet still has a positive attitude. I can always count on Marsha to make me feel better.]: I went through my pantry recently, and found a few things that were bordering on elderly....Don't feel bad!!

Lisa: LOLOL...this is the first thing I read this morning and I laughed out loud!! Too funny! 1996???? Eeeesh, when's the last time you looked in there??? :O) [Lisa is a new friend, obviously.]

Marsha: I did find an item with a 1984 exp date!! Beat ya!!  [See what I mean? She's a gem.]

John: We discovered that our baking powder was bad when we tried to bake a chiffon cake. Oops. [John is a friend who posts lovely photos and descriptions of the scrumptious homemade meals and goodies that come out of his kitchen. 'Tho less so since their adorable daughter came along. Nevertheless, his comment made me realize that I would never really know that my ingredients had gone bad based on their performance. Issues in my kitchen are almost always the result of operator error. It would never occur to me to blame the ingredients. Until now. Score!]

Pam [my wreath-making buddy]: This gave me the giggles

John: When I was visiting my parents at the lake, I put some Kraft parmesan on my pasta. It was orange. It tasted BAD. We looked at the expiration date. It had been expired for a few years when it was moved from their house to the lake, ten years before. At least I didn't die. [OK, that one I might have noticed. The orange part I mean. I most definitely would have noticed John dying from bad parmesan.]

Debi: at least you didn't try to give someone an opened box of cereal that had expired 3 1/2 years ago (we had some friends who moved years ago that gave us all of their unwanted pantry stuff that I just had to throw out anyway)! [Not that I know of, Debi.  Not that I know of.]

Kaitlyn [a 15-year-old with a mom who is an amazing cook and probably uses up her spices and ingredients well before the Wikipedia-recommended time frames]: hey that baking powder is as old as me!!!!!

Rob: Do you have an expiration date, Kaitlyn? [You gotta admire his tenacity.]

Me: Just got back from the grocery store. Current baking powder and cornstarch on the shelves expire in late 2013. So there's a REALLY good possibility our baking soda has been with us since our first apartment. I now fear getting sentimental about it and never throwing it away.

Marsha: Yeah, keep it!! (At least the container), in a few weeks it'll be an antique!!! Hahahaha!!!

Carol [our real estate agent turned friend who is always a wealth of handy tips]: I started writing on my spices the date purchased since I was married YEARS before I knew they should be replaced at least annually! I got a spice rack as a shower gift; about 10 years later I still had some full jars!

Eileen: Seriously, this is one of the best threads ever!

And thus it shall be preserved and shared.  Not entirely unlike the cornstarch and baking powder.

Can she bake a cherry pie? How about an apple one?

The 2-hour class had been on my calendar since August, so you can imagine my anticipation when last Friday’s “Pie Making Clinic” finally arrived. Timed perfectly for the week before Thanksgiving, I was going to not just learn how to bake a pie. No, I was going to learn pie baking from The Pie Masters. You know, the nice church ladies who make the Best Pies on the Planet and sell them at the County Fair every year. WHOO HOO!!!

I can’t remember the exact details, but I do remember being severely disappointed last year that I was not able to attend this now 3rd Annual Pie Clinic. I first learned about it via a modest postcard hiding out on the corner of the pie counter at the 2010 Fair. I asked the booth people about it and they confirmed that yes, the class was taught by the very same church ladies that made the scrumptious mixed berry pie I was eating at the time. So I was delighted to discover the class being offered again this year. I called and registered with Lisa the day after the Fair ended in August. I was the second person to sign up.

In the intervening three months, I managed to convince a good friend to join me. Carolynn really doesn’t need a baking class. She is an amazing and happy baker. She actually enjoys all those dry ingredients poofing around her kitchen. And the pies and breads that emerge from it are delectable. But Carolynn was game for a novel afternoon outing, she being newly liberated now that her youngest child has started kindergarten.

Three days prior to the class, Lisa sent out an email reminding us to bring aprons and something with which to cart home our piping hot pie fresh from the oven. Not only that, the email encouraged us to please let her know of any last-minute changes in plans as there was a waiting list for the clinic. WOW! Good thing I had registered early!

So on Friday, Carolynn and I followed the signs to the church’s basement kitchen and stepped into one heck of an amusing experience.

The basement was a beehive of activity. About 40 aproned women…and a couple men…swarmed around several tables later referred to as stations. Among them was a Pie Crust Station, an Apple Peeling Station, and a Roll Out Your Dough Station.  There were also tableclothed tables and chairs set up, seemingly inviting us to sit and be instructed. We never did sit. And we're still wondering about the instruction.

Although we had arrived 10 minutes early, the apple peeling and crust making were well underway. We signed in with Lisa who gave us each a metal pie tin and a gallon Ziploc bag with our name on it. She then asked us which of the three pie varieties we had previously indicated we wanted to bake. I had signed up for apple and Carolynn had signed up for mixed berry. Somehow this turned into about a ten minute debate amongst the pie ladies about how best to accommodate our pie requests AND allow us to make our pies together. The together part was awfully nice of them but it really wasn’t necessary. But by the time Carolynn and I realized that our affirmative answer to the seemingly innocent question, “Would you like to bake your pies together?” was throwing the ladies into a tailspin, it would have been too disruptive to try to back out. In the end, both of us ended up making apple pies. Sorry, Jon.

After several more minutes of confusion, a sweet lady named Kay was eventually assigned to be our Pie Escort. Honestly, I doubt she had that title…or any title, actually…but her job seemed to be to walk Carolynn and me through each stage and station in the Pie Process. So why we started at the “Roll Out Your Dough” Station is still unclear, seeing as we had yet to make any dough. Even Kay was confused.

Actually, Kay was very confused. She told us several times that this was the first clinic she had helped with. She spent quite a bit of time wandering around asking people what she was supposed to do with us. Oddly, nobody seemed to know. For all the 20 or so people helping put on this clinic, this clinic in its THIRD YEAR, it appeared nobody had any idea how the clinic was supposed to work. Each station sort of knew what they were supposed to do but didn’t know anything about any other part of the process. There was absolutely no flow, no organization, no hints about where to go first or next or last. It was a beehive with lots of worker bees, a few drones, and no queen in sight.

And so with as much logic as was present anywhere else in the room, Carolynn and I began our Pie Clinic by rolling out dough that someone else had made. I took some notes including “keep pin floured” and “roll from center out.” Yes, basic to a baker but key to someone whose typical dough instructions are more along the lines of “bring to room temperature, remove from wrapper, carefully unroll on flat surface.”

We rolled out two crusts, placing one in the pie tin and placing the other on a piece of wax paper. The second was done with much discussion amongst the “Roll Out Your Dough” Station ladies. Every baker has her own method, apparently, of transporting a rolled crust from one location to another. I waited patiently while the ladies duked it out, and I watched with amusement as Carolynn adeptly used an entirely different method to quietly transfer her crust during the debate.

Crusts rolled and transferred, Kay suggested we go hang out at the Apple Peeling Station and wait for two spots to become available. As we sat down, the Peeler Lady showed us how she prefers to peel an apple (go around the top, then the bottom, then do long strings for some reason). She then demonstrated halving and quartering and end-trimming and then slicing. As clueless as I am in the kitchen, even I felt this level of instruction was unnecessary. Nevertheless, as I struggled with a dull knife and a firm apple, I confirmed with Carolynn the location of the nearest emergency room.

The Peeler Lady interrupted us to explain why the peeler she was using was her favorite. Kay and a few other worker bees chimed in and we soon learned the name and location of a produce stand out the Columbia Gorge where you can buy this neat magnetic set of peelers for just $15. And look, they fit together in your drawer just like this! Then, seamlessly, the conversation turned to the pins in Kay’s wrist from the fall she took a few months back. They might have to be taken out, you know. Look, see how one of them seems to be sticking up? Peeler Lady empathized by saying how grateful she was that she herself hasn’t had any problems with her broken thigh. Just as I was about to ask how one goes about breaking a thigh, Peeler Lady, seamlessly, moved the conversation along by announcing to me and Carolynn that she had just returned from a 16-day cruise of the Orient. She described one of her favorite ports (someplace in South Korea) and noted that Ho Chi Minh is dirty and crowded. She really liked Nagasaki, though. “The people there were SO nice even though we bombed them.”

Moving on.

Carolynn was done slicing the four apples for her mixed berry pie and I had sliced my two. We were waiting for more apples to arrive so I could follow the instruction of baking a 4-apple pie. Then it was decided it didn’t really matter, my two apples were fine. Then it was decided, no I didn’t have enough, I really needed two more apples. Then my apples were arranged in my tin like this. But no, that wasn’t quite right, they really needed to be like this instead. And that wasn’t nearly enough. Where are more apples?

Kay then pointed us to the Dry Ingredient Station. The Dry Lady instructed me to put some sugar, flour, cornstarch, and cinnamon in my gallon Ziploc. The sugar and cinnamon measurements could be approximate but the flour and cornstarch were exact. And do NOT put the measuring spoons back into the dry ingredient containers when you are done. They are to remain on the table. Bad, Carolynn!

We added the sliced apples to the Ziploc, did a little shake-n-bake to coat the apples with the spices, and poured the spiced apples back into the tin. Brilliant! So much better than drizzling over the apples in the tin. Carolynn and I agreed we had both finally learned something. Well, aside from Kay needing her pins removed. Kay then directed us to what turned out to be the “Put the Top Crust On” Station.

This station consisted mostly of yet more debate about how to transfer a rolled crust from one location to another. Again, no consensus and again, Carolynn quietly completed her transfer well before the debate was over. We were then shown several crust crimping examples. I really liked one and asked how to do it. The Crimp Master was a drone; therefore, he did not have long thumbnails. This turned out to be key for crimping. Since my thumbnails were just long enough to undesirably puncture the crust, I opted for a spin-and-twist style that ended up looking more like a 4-year-old’s Play-Doh dragon.

We were encouraged to cut designs into the top of our crusts. I was pleased with my asymmetrical diamond pattern…until I saw another one of Kay’s ducklings cutting out leaves from left-over dough and placing them artistically about her pie. Show off.

Carolynn and I stood proudly with our unbaked pies and waited for instruction. Eventually someone (not Kay) told us to put them on a rack for now. They would be baked for us shortly. This gave us time to complete the final step of our Pie Baking Clinic: making the crust.

Carolynn and I both agreed that the Pie Crust Station was by far the best. The woman leading it was prepared, organized, helpful, linear. My two notes from her station were to use a flat bottomed bowl and to put the Crisco on the bottom before adding the flour. I tried not to be horrified by the quantity of solid fat lining the bottom of my flat bowl. Eww and ick. Nevertheless, one advantage of doing the first step last is that Carolynn and I both ended up with enough dough for two more pie crusts. My lump is currently in my freezer.

Finally done, we wandered about and Carolynn discovered the recipes were nicely printed out and hiding on a table. So much for my notes! It sure would have been nice to have had those cards as we went along, especially since they came with lines for note taking. We each grabbed cards for the crust, the apple pie filling, and the elusive mixed berry pie filling. It might very well be that that berry recipe right there was worth the cost of admission ($30, by the way).

Standing awkwardly, reading the apple pie recipe card, Carolynn and I realized that the pie took 45 minutes to bake. Looking at each other, horrified, we both had the same thought: rescue our still unbaked pies and bake them at home!! We quickly went back to the bake rack and asked the Rack Lady pushing it towards the ovens if it would be possible to just take the pies home and bake them there. Thankfully, since nobody was in charge, she didn’t know. So we found our pies, grabbed our purses, thanked Lisa, and escaped to the parking lot.

Although I baked it on Friday afternoon, due to schedules and school plays and chaotic meal times, Rob and I were not able to sample my Church Lady Apple Pie until tonight. We agreed that the apples were a little firm; a bit more time in the oven would have been better. However, after taking one bite, Rob decided he didn’t need ice cream after all. My first bite prompted cutting myself a bigger piece. Also, although I typically don’t eat pie crust and view it simply as a filling wrangler, I didn’t have any extra crust pieces to give to Rob…who offered to eat any that I didn’t want and actually ate the crumbs on the counter left over from my not-so-dainty pie cutting.

So overall, while the Pie Making Clinic was a chaotic, disorganized, bemused afternoon with a scattered kitchen of Church Ladies…the pie and the crust were absolutely heavenly.

The Dead Bird Pot Roast

Semi-regular readers of Woodhaven Ramblings are well aware of my cooking prowess.  I’ve shared stories about Thanksgiving dinners held hostage by a self-cleaning oven, a chicken mutilated by my whimsical knife skills, a kitchen almost set afire with oil and water, and homemade pickles canned while under the ill-advised influence of muscle relaxants.  Despite an endearingly local cooking class last year, shelves of cookbooks, folders and boxes of shared recipes, and drawers and crocks of kitcheny gadgets, the fact remains that it is always a crap shoot when I enter the kitchen with plans to feed people.

And so it was last week, as the rain returned and settled in for a few seasons, that I got the brilliant idea to treat my man to a cozy, Fall-ish, home-cooked pot roast.  Armed with my admittedly vague cooking class notes and even vaguer memories from the last (and only) time I produced a pot roast, I nevertheless thought I had this.   It had been so easy last time!  And aside from using a dark, nutty, stout beer instead of something more yellowish and hoppy, Rob and I had agreed that my inaugural pot roast had been a success.  So exchange the beer for Cabernet Sauvignon and voila!  Happy Husband!

I stopped at a local large grocery store and expected to easily find a package of meat marked “chuck roast.”  Actually, per my notes, I was looking for something that also housed a bone in the shape of a 7.  I dug through the meat case and discovered a cow has many, many parts -- few of which I could identify if shown a map of a cow.  To be honest, I have no idea what part of the cow is called Chuck.  So I had no idea if I could substitute another available meat cut for the surprisingly elusive Chuck-with-a-lucky-7-bone.   Eventually I found one package…one…with the words “chuck roast” on it.  No bone but I didn’t care by then.  And yes, I suppose I could have asked the butcher but to be honest, I was embarrassed.  What 40-something woman doesn’t know what a chuck roast is??

The next day I felt very Happy Homemaker.  I peeled a potato, sliced an onion, and actually used red wine for cooking instead of drinking.  I even had a bay leaf!  I put Chuck in my looks-like-new roasting pan, added the ingredients, put it in the oven, and set the timer per my notes.   I was so confident, I decided to supplement the roast with a new recipe in my bread machine.  It was a sweet potato/maple bread that sounded all things autumn.  It was going to be a lovely, lovely meal.

The timer signaled, the table was set, the bread was warm.  Platter ready, I got Chuck out of the oven with great expectations only to discover Chuck was a bit dry.  Dry as in shoe leather.  Dry as in I needed both hands to pry the fork into it.  Dry as in it looked like we would be having a biblical dinner of bread and wine.  I jammed the meat thermometer in it and discovered it was at least 50 degrees more cooked than desired...and still going.

I’m not entirely certain what words or noises I uttered but they seemed to summon Rob with some concern.  We stared at the withered Chuck and my now obviously lacking notes and tried to determine what went wrong.  As I grabbed the opened bottle of wine I had cooked with and took a swig, Rob astutely assessed the situation and said, “I’ll take care of this.”  Rob and Chuck disappeared into the garage while I retired to the living room with a hunk of bread.  Plan B was soon underway.   We eventually dined on a family favorite called Hobo Stew:  macaroni, ground turkey, and Manwich sauce.  With some Tabasco, wine, and fresh bread, I was soon laughing and posted a status on Facebook:  “So much for THAT pot roast…”

I have a little hobby of trying to match my profile picture on Facebook with my current status.  It being dark outside and Chuck being somewhere in our pasture, I couldn’t post an actual picture of my pot roast.  So I snagged a clip art picture of a lump of coal instead; it seemed fitting enough.  My Facebook friends, also well-versed in my cooking abilities, naturally assumed that lump of coal was actually my pot roast.  There was much concern and bewilderment about how exactly I did that to poor Chuck.  The next morning I went out to our pasture to take a picture of whatever was left of Chuck, assuming any number of critters had enjoyed a feast over night.  Instead, Chuck was still there, fully intact.  Yes, even the coyotes and raccoons knew better.  They did, however, appear to like carrots. 

I posted the picture of Chuck with a clarification about the blackened coal.  One friend showed the picture to her husband and asked him what he thought it was. “Well, I see carrots and maybe a dead bird?”  I see his point.

I then decided to ask my Facebook buddies how they cook pot roast, because something had obviously gone very very wrong.  It became clear in just a matter of minutes that I am indeed the only woman walking this planet who does not know how to cook a pot roast.  I don’t know that I’ve ever received so many comments on just one Facebook post.  And yet, this is when my Dead Bird Pot Roast started to take on a whole new life, when my cooking misadventure became a wonderful experience of friends and sharing.

Over the next few days, friends were sharing their recipes…with me and with each other.  People who only have me in common were suddenly chatting about ingredients and methods and debating crock pot versus oven versus stove top.  Several women emailed me their favorite recipes with promises of it being foolproof (fool, at your service!).  Statuses started popping up on Facebook of friends saying they were making pot roast for dinner.  My sister-in-law in California posted a picture of hers, to give me inspiration, as did a friend in Florida.  Two local friends told me they had made a pot roast in my name, and a friend in Massachusetts hoped her roast sent me good vibes.  The Dead Bird Pot Roast inspired a nationwide Community of Cooking.  It was awesome!

Vowing not to give up, I had lunch with a 70-something friend to help me figure out where I had gone wrong with Chuck so I could try again.  After a step-by-step recounting, my fatal mistake was quickly deemed to be the use of a rack.  Yes, I had put Chuck on a rack in my roasting pan.  So despite the bountiful liquid in the pan, it wasn’t enough to keep Chuck in contact with it and therefore moist.  “It would have made a wonderful gravy, though,” my friend tried to encourage me about the wine and veggies and roast juices.  Right.  Me, making gravy.  HA HA HA! 

This same dear lady found me at church yesterday and said she had a gift for me.  She handed me a recipe card, written in her own hand, of the pot roast recipe she has been using for years, courtesy of a 1950’s Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.  The handwriting immediately reminded me of my grandma’s.  I have several of Grandma’s recipe cards in my box.  I rarely use them but I treasure them.  I treasure the time she took to write them out for me, the passing down of instructions and memories of favorite meals, the handwriting that is so personal and tangible.

With lots of support and detailed instructions and a crock pot and cheering from near and far, I attempted Pot Roast v2.0 the other night.  A brave young guest with a sense of adventure joined us.  It was deemed edible and tasty!  Yahoo!!!  We skipped having the remaining sweet potato/maple bread with it, though.  Rob had noted it tasted a bit strange.  When I told him I couldn’t find the “canned vacuum-packed sweet potatoes” the recipe called for and instead had come up with an ingenious substitute, he looked both skeptical and justified.  Yep, turns out sweet potatoes baby food -- though vacuum-packed -- doesn’t taste quite the same as sweet potatoes for grown-ups.   Still so very much to learn.